


on the same page

by Chekhov



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Background Character Death, Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Fake Marriage, Fake/Pretend Relationship, False Accusations, False Accusations of Pedophilia, Fanfic Author AU, Happy Ending, Homophobia, Human AU, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Mutual Pining, Parental Rejection, Pining, Power Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Service Top Crowley (Good Omens), Slow Burn, They're Bonin but they're still somehow Pining, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), idiots to lovers, they're switches bitches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:07:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 117,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22782244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chekhov/pseuds/Chekhov
Summary: Aziraphale Z. Fell is a rising star of the spiritual literary genre - the next Eat Pray Love guy - and his version of Chicken Soup For the Christian Soul is flying off the shelves. It's not that he's not grateful, but it's one thing to enjoy a career in writing and another completely to be pigeonholed into a specific genre, so much so that you are almost forbidden from writing anything else.So yes, maybe he has a bit of a secret. An outlet for his less... appropriate urges. And yes, if his typical readership got word of the sort of paragraphs he could put out on a particularly inspired night, they might suffer some form of heart attack typical for their age.But all of that is well hidden, and there is absolutely no way anyone would ever find out about his Arrangement with A.J. Crowley - the most debaucherous romantic fiction author of the decade.That is... until they have to pretend to be married to each other.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 1706
Kudos: 1947
Collections: Best Aziraphale and Crowley, Good Omens Human AUs, Ineffable Delights to Sink Your Teeth Into, Ineffable Humans AU, Ixnael’s Recommendations, Just Enough Of A Bastard to be Worth Knowing Biblically, Our Own Side





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> What you need to know:
> 
> \- This is a self-indulgent fanfic in which both of them are queer middle aged authors.  
> \- Very popular in their own... respective genres.  
> \- Yes, they still have The Arrangement  
> \- A series of (un)fortunate events means they have to pretend to be married  
> \- Look you already know where this is going. You clicked on this.
> 
> Warnings:  
> \- No, I did not take myself seriously  
> \- Everything is for the sake of emotionally horny moments  
> \- Also just general horny moments  
> \- They Are Both Dumb and Repressed and I absolutely take advantage of this.
> 
> Thank you to the ever-supportive [diskingoferebor ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DisKingOfErebor) for the beta!!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We begin with a single bad decision - or perhaps a good one.

* * *

“Can you believe this?” 

Aziraphale looked up - directly into a chiseled eight-pack of a half naked man. Something about it was unbelievable, he had to concede. Surely real people were not meant to have that many abs. Recent scientific marvels aside, what would their use even be? But that was beside the point - the rest of the details more than made up for it. There was the flowing dark hair, for example, and the half-lidded bedroom eyes - were they green? Blue? It was hard to tell. And then there was, of course, the girl on his arm, slumped dramatically as if she had just discovered a human-shaped fainting couch for all of her late-19th century-fainting-needs. That was a bit overkill.

“Mmm, yes,” he said right before reaching up to touch the abs - and then push the Romantic Fiction book out of his face where it had been hovering.

“It’s ridiculous,” said Gabriel, turning the softcover around to take another look at it from an arms-length. “This is what passes for literature around here? It’s obscene! It’s practically pornography!” 

Aziraphale gave another vague noise of ascension and then looked back down at his own table and tried to re-focus his attention on the letter he was reading. 

_ Dear Mr. Fell, _ it began. _ I’ve been a fan for the longest time! I can’t tell you how much your book has meant to me. Just when I was beginning to lose faith, your words reassured me that the Lord is out there, looking out for us. You previously mentioned in a panel that you struggled with your writing sometimes, but now you’re a big-time author and I can’t imagine anyone better suited for fame! Like you said, the Lord works in Mysterious - no, RIDICULOUS! ways and I _

Reaching up, Aziraphale rubbed the bridge of his nose and then used the momentum to push his glasses back up. 

Much as he appreciated the fanmail, it was difficult to focus on the words when the image of the many-abbed hero and his damsel in distress were burned into the back of his retinas.  _ Do they  _ have _ to use those ridiculous artistic depictions every time?  _ he thought to himself.  _ Who draws those, anyway? _

“To think,” continued Gabriel at his side, “that such nonsense is displayed alongside your own works - doesn’t it just make your blood boil? This is supposed to be a family-friendly store, isn’t it?”

Aziraphale continued to stare down at the letter, chewing the inside of his cheek. He was not about to answer - these tirades usually ran their course without him ever supplying any necessary feedback. It was easier that way, he had found. That was, presumably, why Gabriel had become an editor in the first place. He was good at voicing his opinion (constructively or otherwise) and he enjoyed it. Most importantly, he never took no for an answer. It was a double edged sword for Aziraphale, but he rarely had room to complain with the deals they’d been getting.

“Maybe I should speak to their manager.” Gabriel glanced towards the cash register. It was on the opposite end of the store, and thankfully far away enough that no one would hear him. 

“I don’t think we ought to stir up trouble,” said the long-suffering author wearily. “They were the ones kind enough to offer to host the book-signing.”

“Nonsense,” Gabriel shot back. “They’re lucky to have us. Your visit has brought in hundreds of customers! And if they know what’s good for them, they’ll know they shouldn’t be stocking this kind of trash right next to good, Christian content.”

Aziraphale suppressed another sigh. 

“And oh! Just as I thought,” said Gabriel darkly. “Guess who it’s by.”

The author next to him folded up the letter without finishing it. “Who?” he asked flatly, though he already knew the answer. 

“Who do you think? The one and only: Anthony J. Crowley.” Gabriel tsked disapprovingly. “That heathen... I swear, back in my day we didn’t let just anyone publish books. There were standards, I tell you. Books used to be for education - for the arts! About spirituality! Not this drivel - what’s it teaching anyone? How to fornicate?” 

Without pausing, he turned around and replaced the book on the lowest shelf he could find. “I’m telling you,” he added, standing back up and straightening his jacket. “He should have stayed where he was - blogging away and writing that... that... fanfiction nonsense. That would have been good - kept him out of the public eye. Instead he just had to go and make it big on this sinful rubbish. Romantic Idealist! Bah!”

It seemed that they were coming to the tail-end of the Complain Train. Usually it only took a few minutes for the editor to get it all out of his system. And sure enough - once the list of grievances about one Anthony J. Crowley had been exhausted, Gabriel pivoted on his heel and stalked off to find someone else to harass - presumably some unsuspecting manager. 

Alone, Aziraphale allowed himself a deep sigh of relief. Rolling his shoulders a bit, he turned the motion in a full-body sweep and oh-so-subtly reached down to pluck the book from the shelf where it had been abandoned. With another glance towards Sir Many-Abs on the cover, he flipped to the first few pages, skimming the lines with a critical eye.

_ In all ways but one, the Lady Anabelle was a typical woman of the court. She had inheritance aplenty, she had her wit, and charms, and the only thing that set her apart from the rest of the fair maidens in the villa was a secret she held on to more tightly than her corset held on to her ample bosom.  _

He wasn’t really reading  _ that _ intently, but apparently he had immersed himself enough to jump when another voice approached the table.

“You’re Mr. Fell?”

He fumbled to shut the book and looked up at the young woman who had materialized in front of his table. “Ah, yes?”

“You look nothing like I imagined.” 

Aziraphale forced a cordial smile. To be fair, she didn’t look like his typical reader base either - much younger than usual, and much more... unique, in the way she chose her fashions. In fact, judging by the inverted pentagram hanging over her throat, she fit in much more with the other group he came into contact with most often. The ones Gabriel called his ‘Haters’. 

Personally, Aziraphale didn’t hold it against them. Some of them had rather valid points. The rest - well... those he could deal with. He had suffered through enough of it in his youth to hold his own against petty bullies, especially if he only had to interact with them through Twitter - which he didn’t understand enough to take personally anyway. 

“Can I help you?” he asked finally, realizing that she had not said anything yet.

“No,” she replied, her eyes never leaving his face, as if studying it. She was American - he took notice of it now that he’d heard enough of her accent, though her manner also helped expedite the conclusion. “I just recognized your name is all. Figured I should snatch my chance at meeting a celebrity.”

“I would hardly call myself that.”

“I would,” said the woman, completely sure. “I know your work. Religious self-help texts - looking for God’s love through art, food, and personal encounters. My aunt  _ loves _ your stuff. Won’t shut up about you. You’re the next Eat Pray Love guy. Wait a few more years and middle aged moms will be hanging up your quotes in their kitchens.”

Aziraphale tightened his smile a notch to keep it from slipping. Fame did not suit him in the slightest - on the contrary, it was like an itchy sweater he had been forced into for Christmas photos. The issue was, he was expected to continue wearing it for the rest of the year. “I’m afraid I’m not that exciting. As you can see, my fans are nowhere to be found.”

“It’s lunchtime, they’ll be back,” replied the woman easily. Then, with a suddenly sly grin, she nodded downwards. “What are you reading? Is that any good?”

Aziraphale followed her gaze and realized, with some chagrin, that the book cover was still blatantly visible even with his feeble attempt to cover it up with his splayed fingers. “Oh,” he said, fighting a blush. “I just... picked it up. Haven’t gotten very far in, really. Do you know it?”

“I do, but... I feel like it’s not really your style,” she said, and it wasn’t clear whether it was her way of speaking, or if Aziraphale was legitimately being made fun of. “That’s Anthony J. Crowley. Historical romance fiction - but it’s a little risque. You might find it... less than wholesome. If you want, I can tell you which parts to skip and you can just enjoy the E-rated ten-page descriptions of 18th century chapels and the medicinal use of herbs.”

“That does sound like a lovely time,” Aziraphale assured her. “I’ll be sure to avoid the... indecent bits.”

“Good luck,” said the girl and turned away, her dark braid swinging. “There are a lot,” she called over her shoulder.

Aziraphale sighed and looked down at the book again. 

_ Oh, trust me, I know _ , he thought to himself.

After all, he had written most of them.

* * *

It was a dark and stormy night. 

It could stand to be stormier, of course, but one couldn’t ask too much of the weather. Embellishment where necessary was one of his prized talents. A touch of drama here and there really helped to bring out the true colors of whatever prose was suffering at his hand. 

Suffering - that was really the crux of it, wasn’t it? Human suffering. The glue that held together many a paperback. The true fuel of storytelling. Pain, sorrow, woes that they all faced. No one wanted to suffer alone - misery loved company. It was, perhaps, why the self-help genre was so popular with the religious audience. No one loved suffering as much as Catholics. 

Bless them, really. At least they were an easy sell.

He was loathe to admit it, but he was perhaps prone to dramatics and suffering a bit himself. It may have been his upbringing, or his character or the fact that he was full from a pleasant dinner, inside a warm car, rushing down the busy London streets and suffering at the hand of the unsympathetic driver who seemed to be all too cheerfully ignoring speed limits and the physical limits of turning corners in general. It was rather threatening to make his pleasant dinner come back up again - therein lay the suffering.

Well, there were other reasons to suffer, but he was determined to skip on his scheduled moping today.

That particular plan was scrapped as soon as Aziraphale’s phone began to sound the first few chords of Vivaldi’s Winter, distracting him from the artistically smeared view of streetlights out the window. He fumbled for a moment, glanced at the display needlessly (Gabriel - who else would it be?) and then pressed the sleek black square of technology against the side of his face. 

“Yes?”

“I’ve got good news and bad news.”

It was not the greatest start to the conversation, but he’d had worse. “Alright.”

“Good news first,” Gabriel decided for him. “Are you sitting down?”

“I’m in a taxi,” Aziraphale replied, glancing to his side, where the driver was diligently pretending to be paying attention to the road. The man glanced at him and then redirected his attention to the traffic light as if he had no interest in the conversation whatsoever - although he most certainly did. 

Aziraphale was speaking into the phone again. His voice was low, but clear enough to make out while they were stopped and the car was idling. “Yes,” he was saying in a reply to a question the driver had not been privy to. “Yes, I’ve heard of him. But I’m not really familiar with--” He paused, listened intently, and then his voice jumped up a tone. “A  _ what _ ?”

The light turned green and the driver regretfully pressed the gas pedal. His regret quickly faded, however, when he realized that something seemed to be spurring the conversation into a volume that could be heard even over the purr of the engine. 

“Wait, and you’ve already--... you’ve already agreed?” Another pause. “But that’s...” Yet another break - it seemed his conversation partner was prone to interrupting mid-word. “Gabriel, you can’t be serious! No, I understand it’s a great opportunity, of course...” The passenger became quieter, sagging back into the seat visibly. “Yes... Yes, obviously I want that. It’s just-- for an entire week? You know how I am with people, this isn’t exactly-- No, no, I understand. Yes. Yes, of course. Yes...” He took a deep breath and reached up to massage his temple, where the street lights were painting his platinum-white curls red and blue. “Alright, then... what’s the bad news?”

Even knowing it was impossible, the driver gave his best attempt at driving quieter, willing the engine to dampen. He strained to hear what the other was saying but instead got only stunned silence. In spite of himself, he stole another glance - and watched the soft-looking blue eyes open wider and wider. 

“My... what...?” Aziraphale choked out.

The driver looked back at the road and immediately had to slam the breaks to avoid running into the car in front of him. 

It must have been bad news, whatever it was - because his passenger didn’t even mention the jerky stop. 

“I don’t have a--” Aziraphale swallowed a lump in his throat. “I haven’t-- What? No, I know that, but how am I supposed to--” He reached up and rubbed his face, the tremble of his hand betraying a much stronger emotion. “Oh good lord... they did? No, that wasn’t... I can’t do that.” He listened intently for a few more seconds. “Gabriel, you can’t be serious.”

Evidently, Gabriel was serious. A few seconds later, Aziraphale’s shoulders sagged further down, he muttered a few weak agreements into the phone and then dragged it away from his ear, pressing it to his chest instead.

The light ahead of them turned red. The car slowed to an uncharacteristically gentle stop.

“Bad news?” asked the driver. Aziraphale started out of his very polite panic attack and forced himself to remember where he was. He put the phone away and clenched his hands into fists on top of his knees. Behind his eyes was the start of a headache - and behind that, an even bigger dilemma. 

“Shall I go to the  off-license first?” tried the driver again hopefully.

Aziraphale closed his eyes and breathed out. “Actually, I think I need some fresh air - can you let me out?”

“What, here? We’re only five minutes away and it’s pouring buckets!”

“I’ll walk. I’ve got an umbrella.” 

“But--”

“I really must insist!” said the author through his teeth. “I don’t feel well. Might be sick. Wouldn’t want it to happen all over your seats.”

The driver looked at him, mouth parted in a silent question, but some battle of priorities must have won out, because three seconds later the car pulled up to the curb and the passenger stumbled out. 

It was a dark and stormy night. 

Aziraphale didn’t actually have an umbrella - he hadn’t planned for it - but he had a hood on his jacket, which he elected to pull up over his ears as a weak attempt to protect himself from the rain. He didn’t look at the car - which was still idling at the side of the road - and instead turned on his heel and marched off across the park, disappearing quickly into the shade of the trees.

* * *

Half an hour later he was at his destination - on the top floor of a luxurious complex. He rang the bell once and waited for a beat. It didn’t take long for footsteps to sound across wooden floors. A second and then the heavy mental door opened and a streak of golden light slashed across his damp, flushed face.

“You’re late.”

Heaving a tired sigh, Aziraphale held up an incriminatingly-shaped paper bag. “Went to the  off-license ,” he said by way of an explanation. 

The door opened wider, and the flat’s owner stepped aside. Aziraphale immediately shouldered his way in, already halfway through shrugging off his jacket. 

“I have wine you know.”

“Going to need something stronger tonight, I think,” replied the author, handing over the bottle. His coat went on the hook beside the familiar black jacket - and his shoes joined the rest at the entrance. They looked wildly out of place - a soft, caramel beige next to a pileup of black boots - the steel toed and high heeled variety alike.

“You’re soaked.”

“I didn’t actually bring an umbrella,” he admitted.

“Wow, really? I never would have guessed.” The sardonic pitch of the voice did nothing to help matters, but Aziraphale felt it was well deserved after how he’d acted. “It sure would have been nice if there’d been someone to... I don’t know... give you a lift? In a car? Specifically to this exact location where you were going to end up anyway?” Footsteps padded along after him as he headed to the kitchen past the drab, angular interior decorations - and lack thereof. “Too bad no one offered... except wait.”

“I’m sorry - I panicked,” admitted Aziraphale, opening the kitchen cabinets and reaching for the tumblers without even looking. “I needed some time to... think.”

“What happened?”

He made to turn around, but then stopped himself. Set the glasses down and reached for the bottle of cognac. “Drinks first. Then work. Then...” Uncapped the bottle and bravely resisted taking a swig directly from the mouth. No, things were not so bad quite  _ yet _ . “I’m probably going to have a favor to ask of you, Anthony.” 

“You know how terrifying it is when you use my first name?” said Anthony, leaning one hand against the edge of the counter, observing him with what was probably a look of considerable concern. “I’m downright spooked right now.”

Aziraphale sighed and finally looked up.

Anthony - not just any Anthony. The one and only - Anthony J. Crowley. 

It had been easier to ignore the details of what Aziraphale had spent so long diligently forgetting about between their rare meetups when he didn’t look directly at the other. When he could glimpse it from the dim lights of whatever tiny, family-owned restaurant they’d stuffed themselves into the back of. When he could just barely make out the lines of Crowley’s face from the light on stage while the orchestra was playing at whatever concert they had snuck away to.

It had been easier to ignore it when they were in the car, bundled up against the December winds, when it was dark enough to not see the way the glow of the traffic light traced the other’s jawline. It was easier when he couldn’t make out the cheekbones and dark-red hair that would usually fall to the shoulders in gentle trying-to-be-curls. At the moment it was pulled up into a topknot, exposing the curve of his neck, showing off quite a lot of skin which pooled neatly into the dip of the dark v-neck he was wearing. 

Uninvited, the voice of the young woman he’d met at his signing a week ago drifted back to him. ‘ _ You look nothing like I imagined. _ ’

He was-- he had been nothing like Aziraphale had imagined.

His imagination had never done the real thing justice.

But it was too late to lament it now. He had had  _ quite _ a few years under his belt to come to terms with what Anthony J. Crowley looked like and the unfairness of life and the way luck had played them all. Here he was, a chunky author of Christian self-help books. And here was Crowley: A temptation in a soft sweater, with expressive hazel - bordering on golden - eyes and too-tight trousers. An actualization of the very genre he had become famous in. The romantic fantasy on legs. And what legs they were.

But no, none of that was new. Back to the present.

“So am I going to have to play twenty questions?” asked Crowley, holding out his hand for the glass, which Aziraphale slotted into his slim fingers as if he hadn’t been thoroughly distracted. He didn’t neglect to notice the black varnish chipping off of his nails. Crowley was prone to chewing them when he was nervous. (Was it a sign that Aziraphale’s prior escapade had affected him more than he let on? It was best to not dwell on that idea.) “Let’s get through this work stuff quick, I’m dying to find out what’s got you fighting to escape my car after a single phone call. I never got that kind of reaction before, even with all the speed limits I break. I’m a little offended. Am I losing my touch?”

“Give me a minute, will you?” Aziraphale said. He took a disproportionately large gulp of the cognac and regretted it - but only a little. “Work first. The ending chapters for the Rebirth in Europe manuscript - have you made any headway?”

Crowley scrunched up his face and leaned back against the counter opposite of Aziraphale. “You could say that. It’s probably not what you’re looking for. I’m taking it in a bit of a... gothic direction.”

“Do you mean that in a literary or an aesthetic sense?” asked Aziraphale with a frown. “Because you know I don’t mind your architectural spiels - but after the thing you wrote about the vampires, I’d rather not.” He took another sip, a smaller one that time. “Gabriel thought I’d lost it. Took me a whole month before he stopped asking me if I’d joined a cult.”

“No vampires,” promised Crowley. “I just got a bit inspired ever since I went to Prague two months ago. Cathedrals and old city streets - your readers will love it. Especially the Americans. They love that old European shit more than anything.”

“Oh, good,” breathed Aziraphale. He watched the other man drink a bit more, and then tried to get his ancient reptile brain to move the conversation along instead of focusing on the way the other’s tongue traced the rim of the glass. “Me too. I mean - your middle chapters are nearly complete. I’ve just got to go back through and check a few things for historical accuracy. Haven’t really done any research about the Siberian wilderness before.”

“Are you trying to justify using ginger in 18th century Russia?” asked Crowley, and grinned when Aziraphale gave him a half-hearted glare. “I thought that was pretty funny the first time.”

“It’s not a joke. The last thing we need is to have  _ your _ readers imitating extremely uninformed literary choices,” he chided. “You do know that they actually try this out on themselves? Read it once and get ‘inspired’.”

“Survival of the fittest, I always say,” replied Crowley. “Darwin awards were invented for a reason. Besides,” he added, “we put a disclaimer in the front now.  _ ‘Do not try this at home!’  _ Beez made me do it.”

“Good on them, really,” muttered Aziraphale. “But while we’re on the topic, I also wanted to ask about the sequel. Are you really planning to--”

“Ah yes.” Crowley grinned. “The return of The Creature from the Pond.” He opened his hand and gestured to the sitting room, where a familiar sofa and chair were waiting, draped with a knitted white blanket which softened the edges of the modern furniture. “Step into my office, and let me tell you about how I’m planning to make my way back into the incredible niche I like to call ‘monsterfucking’.”

“You are a nightmare,” groaned Aziraphale, but a smile was already fighting its way to his face. Pouring himself a bit more spirit, he tipped away from the supportive edge of the counter and ambled along after the other to the old, inviting dip of the sofa. 

They had their habits - this was one of them. Drinks were always involved. Other details had also manifested themselves into something resembling a ritual over the years. The tendency to meet at night, especially in bad weather - which London supplied plenty of. The tendency to go to dinner in tiny little cafes and sit at the furthest table, cloaked in darkness and discuss plots - divide up which chapters to write, and who would need to fill specific expectations.

Aziraphale, for example, had a penchant for sex scenes. It wasn’t something he boasted - on the contrary, if his typical readership got word of the sort of paragraphs he could put out on a particularly inspired night, they might suffer some form of heart attack typical for their age. Oh, he was good at other things, of course - inspiring quotes, spiritual drabble. That was what had boosted him into the spotlight, after all. But it was one thing to enjoy a career in writing - and another completely to be pigeonholed into a specific genre, so much so that you were almost forbidden from writing anything else.

Crowley, meanwhile, despite being rather adept at literary debauchery, had grown tired of his fame for it over the years. These days he was far more interested in the arts and philosophical prose - but it was not his theme, nor something his audience was looking to read. It was, however, something he was praised highly for - by Aziraphale’s audience. 

All of this, of course - under each other’s names. That was the rule. They wrote together and published separately. Untangled signatures from between the lines, ironed out the strings of their own personal flair and passed them off to their editors as a single-sourced work. 

It was clean. It was simple. They both got done what needed to be done - and all niches were neatly full of thriving inspiration.

“I’m working on another idea,” said Crowley nearly three hours later. 

It was, to be precise, three hours and many, many glasses of alcohol later. They had loosened up considerably - Aziraphale had undone his tie and put his feet up on the table, his tartan patterned socks just a few inches away from Crowley’s red ones. The Romantic Fiction author was attempting to put the chair he was perched on out of a job through sheer ridicule of the concept of humanly possible sitting positions. It was endearing in the way only Crowley could make it be. “You’re going to love it.” He hiccuped a bit and tried to undo the knot in his spine, but then gave up and collapsed back into a mess of limbs. “Are you ready?”

“I’m never ready,” giggled Aziraphale from the sofa. He shifted the glass in his hand over to the table. “Go on then.”

“A compilation of historical LGBT figures in art and pornographic fictional tidbits based on their life and available biographical details. I’ll call it... Gay History - The Fucking Arts.” Crowley reached up and unfurled an invisible rainbow over his head with both hands, staring dazedly up at the ceiling. 

“That’s--” Aziraphale felt himself chortling in spite of it. “That’s  _ terrible _ .” 

“Why?” asked Crowley immediately, apparently offended. “What’ve you got against it?”

“It’s a terrible name!”

“Is not! You got something better?”

“At the very least,” argued Aziraphale drunkenly. “It should be a pun of some sort. History - The Olden Gays.”

“I May Be Bi-ased - But Tchaikovsky Was Gay,” countered Crowley, much to the approving grumbling of the other.

“Just to Queer Things Up.”

“Let Me Be Absolutely Queer About This -  _ All  _ Your Favorite Historical Figures Are Gay!!”

“Too long,” muttered Aziraphale. 

“Not something the target audience will ever complain about,” the man replied immediately. There was a pause - and then they both dissolved into cackling laughter, clutching at the furniture for support as the room swayed tipsily. 

There was something about these moments - which Aziraphale was very careful not to keep track of, to think too hard on - that unwound him in some primal way. It sunk into his chest like hot cocoa did, warmed him to the tips of his fingers and made it very difficult to find his way back to reality. These soft spots of letting go that didn’t seem to happen anywhere else in his life. Something about them made him feel like he was on the precipice of something great - something good. 

Something that was _ too good _ to be true. 

Which was why he immediately had to ruin it. Or that was the presumed reason, because he always did ruin these tiny pockets of bliss, without fail.

He did so now by opening his big damn mouth and suddenly saying: “I need you to pretend to be my husband for a week.”

An awkward silence immediately blanketed the room.

Crowley’s grin was slow to die - but it was somehow more painful that way. He kept smiling for a second, then two seconds, before the corners of his mouth twitched and several conflicting emotions scratched his expression and were wiped off again in quick succession. Confusion - perhaps anger - then hurt - then more confusion. 

“Wha...?” he said. 

Aziraphale groaned into his hands, which were by now hiding his face in shame, and struggled into a more upright sitting position, getting his feet back on the ground and trying to keep them flat on the floorboards, which were swaying like a ship at sea. “Oh good lord... This was not-- This was not how I intended it to go. I forgot to tell you.”

Crowley had not yet attempted to right himself into a more vertical shape. “Forgot to... tell me what?” he choked out.

“The favor.” Aziraphale sighed, rubbed his eyeballs back into his skull and then breathed out and started again. “The phone call I got in the car. From Gabriel. It was for a book deal. An american... ambassador? Diplomat - something or other - wants to hire me to do a... a PR run. Heard about the success of the novel I did about traveling to Japan - wants me to do something similar for the states. He’s offered to fund me for a full year, free ride everything - an all expenses paid tour across the continental US.”

Crowley still hadn’t moved. “That sounds... good,” he said, though there was a reserved tone to it. 

“Yes, well,” Aziraphale rubbed the edge of his brow, looking anywhere but the other. “First he wants to meet with me. See if I’m trustworthy, I suppose. Discuss plans. Have me stay with his family over the holidays in some cabin they own up in... New Hampshire? Somewhere up north.”

“Oh.” Crowley’s voice was still tense. “And the fake husband thing is because...”

Here Aziraphale lost some of his hard-earned control again and began to knead his hands worriedly. He had hoped the alcohol would help, but instead it was only making him nauseous. He didn’t think he’d get this far. Or maybe he hoped he wouldn’t have. Now there was no going back, and his mouth was moving on its own. “This-- This ambassador. He’s a bit, you know. On the... conservative side. All about family values and all that.”

“So he’s an uptight homophobic arse,” supplied Crowley. “So what? Big deal. Hire an actress, bam, you have a wife.” He struggled upright, untangling his mile-long legs from the arm of the chair. It may have been Aziraphale’s imagination, but he was also determinedly looking anywhere but at the only other human in the room. Aziraphale took his chance to swallow down the remainder of his uncertainty. “What in the hell’s name do you need me for? A husband would just make it worse--”

“They already know I’m gay.”

Crowley looked up. Despite how annoyed he’d been a second ago, the look on Aziraphale’s face seemed to soften him considerably. It was quiet - there was only the creak of gnashing teeth as Aziraphale tightened his jaw. 

“Gabriel said he saw-- there were apparently some photos they’d been made aware of.”

Crowley swallowed audibly. “Photos,” he echoed. 

“Photos of... me.”

Crowley was unnaturally still. “With... a man?”

“With you, Crowley.”

It would have been comical if it wasn’t so terrifying. Opposite him, Crowley appeared to be speedrunning all the stages of grief. He screeched to a halt somewhere around Denial and was having trouble starting up again. Some amount of syllables seemed to give a feeble attempt at evolving into full words but immediately suffered a Mass Extinction event and tumbled out as a series of prehistoric sounds. 

“Th-- Wh-- N-- There’s no-- We haven’t been--  _ What photos? _ ” he demanded finally.

Aziraphale closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and leaned back. There was no going back from this. “The one from six years ago. At the Garden.”

Crowley blinked. The gears were turning - there they went, finally moving past Denial, into Depression - and then Anger, and then Acceptance. Thankfully they had not taken a pit-stop at Bargaining. It was a relief to know the other at least remembered enough of that evening to not try to deny it had happened.

“Oh fuck,” he said, dropping his head into his hands. “The Garden. The one the fangirls took--”

“Yes,” Aziraphale confirmed.

The conversation returned to soundlessness again as each participant got their fill of their nervous tics. Aziraphale was spinning the ring on his pinky finger. Crowley had shoved his hands to his mouth and was attempting to chew through his nails down to the bone. Usually that would have been grounds for at least a gentle reprimand - he had never bothered to invest in non-toxic varnish and it couldn’t be good for his health - but Aziraphale was a bit preoccupied at the moment. 

At least for a while. Then the old habits won out.

“They said - to Gabriel that is - that they want to meet me and my... partner.” He lifted his eyes to Crowley and was satisfied to find out that he had successfully diverted the attention away from making a meal of the chipping black paint. “Presumably, this is some sort of test. They’re fine with the fact that I’m gay - but they want to know if I’m... you know. The palatable type of gay.”

Crowley’s eyebrows jumped at him quietly, asking an unspoken question. 

Aziraphale took a weary breath. “The type that is monogamous - instead of... well... the kind that...”

“The kind that cruises,” finished Crowley. His shoulders were losing some of their tension and his eyebrows were floating back down. “They want to know if you’re out here, having promiscuous gay sex every day of the week with the first guy you find at the bar - or if you’re a neo-Christian Approved Gay with Family Values that they can use to promote themseves as being accepting.” He groaned as the final touches of comprehension sank in. “And the best litmus test for that is... to dare you to show up with the same man you were in a photo with six years ago.”

“Precisely,” Aziraphale replied through his teeth, and reached for his drink again. It was woefully empty but he tipped it back, tonguing the last few drops off of the rim for appearance’s sake. “Gabriel basically said ‘don’t care what you have to do - find him or a lookalike, pay him to go with you; make this work’.”

“Bloody good luck I’m right here, then, innit.” 

Aziraphale’s eyes bounced back up to him in shock. He had been the one to start it, sure, but a quick agreement was the furthest thing from what he expected. “Pardon?” 

“Don’t have to look for a lookalike if you have the real thing available.”

“No, Crowley-- Hold on, I think I spoke too soon.” The issue was that he’d spoken at all. “I don’t want to drag you into this. I can just figure it out myself or... Or just tell Gabriel it’s impossible.”

“Why?” Crowley leaned forward in his chair, the sharp intensity replacing any previous signs of doubt. “Aziraphale, this is a huge deal. If you get this, you get to tour around the colonies and have yourself a nice old time - for a whole year? Imagine how many doors this would open for you!”

“I’m-- It’s not...It’s _ lying,  _ Crowley!”

“What difference does it make?”

“It makes a difference to me!” Aziraphale cried and pushed himself to his feet, almost toppling over in the process. He’d momentarily forgotten he was drunk, but his legs hadn’t. “Besides, what if they find out who you are? I have no idea how they didn’t recognize you--”

“Because I keep my face far more well-hidden - Beez isn’t out there slapping my mug on every paperback like Gabriel--”

“That’s now! What about six years ago?” Aziraphale demanded, grappling with the sofa spine to keep his balance as he toddled around the living room angrily. “That night at the Garden you were fine with showing your face to all your adoring fans!”

“Precisely!” snapped Crowley, jumping up as well - and promptly tipping forward like a felled tree, crashing into the coffee table in front of him. A momentary squabble ensued, during which Aziraphale lurched forward to grab for the other’s elbow automatically and they both ended up struggling to remain upright. Aziraphale eventually realized he had been clutching Crowley’s sleeve as the other straightened up and promptly let go and willed himself to take an unnaturally coordinated step back to widen the distance between them to a more formal one. 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley began again, this time much more softly. “I owe you. This is my fault, alright?”

It didn’t make much sense, and Aziraphale told him so in no uncertain terms. 

“Six years ago - at the Garden. You were there because of me.” There was regret in his voice, but stubbornness too. “If you’d never gone--”

“I agreed to go. I agreed to the photo.”

“We both agreed to the photo, idiots that we were. But we didn’t know, alright?” The man was running his fingers through his hair, pulling out the knot and redoing it again. He fought with the tie for a few seconds before giving up and letting the hair fall loose in artistic waves around his face.

Aziraphale forced himself to look away.

_ I could kiss you _ , he thought. 

And that was the terrifying thing - he could. He could pull out the favor Crowley owed him. He could pull out dozens. They’d covered for each other hundreds of times over the years. Even without the Garden incident, there would always be something he could leverage in his favor. He could find a way to make Crowley his for a week - live in the same quarters, play the part. They would probably have to kiss for that, at least a little. It would be justified if they were pretending to be married. 

Crowley was ready to agree.

_ I  _ could  _ kiss you _ , he thought again,  _ but I shouldn’t. _ Closed his eyes and swallowed down the possibility, burying it deep below the place where his heart was, passing it through his system like all the other cravings he had. Turning it into waste and getting rid of it again and again and again, ignoring the fact that the hunger always came back on the daily. 

“Besides,” said Crowley, interrupting his gastrointestinal metaphor, “where else are you gonna find someone that looks this good?” 

Aziraphale ripped his gaze up from the floor and glued it to the man in front of him again - arms spread wide demonstratively, a fake grin plastered on his face to hide the nervousness he felt. It was his eyes that betrayed him - Crowley’s preening was far more convincing when one couldn’t see the anxiety that was usually so well hidden behind a pair of sunglasses.

“I mean,” the man said, sagging a bit and retreating into himself under Aziraphale’s intense gaze (which was far more appreciative than it was judgemental, though perhaps Crowley was not able to pick up on the fact through the mist of their combined panic), “I know I looked better six years ago, but I think I’m still recognizable. An off-brand version.”

“You haven’t aged a day, you sly devil,” Aziraphale replied - and perhaps he said it a bit too softly for it to be platonic, because Crowley went red about the ears and immediately cleared his throat and began to wobble his way back to the kitchen as a drunken form of defence.

“Right then, it’s decided, is it?” he called over his shoulder. “We’ll go off, have ourselves a little holiday in America, fool some straight people into thinking we’re a lovely normal, respectable couple of queers in a long-term exclusive monogamous relationship - and everything will be fine! You’ll get your book deal and I’ll get some... free meals. It can’t--” Crowley’s voice seemed to crack - perhaps he’d stumbled over something in his search through the cabinets for more drink. “--can’t hurt to try, can it?”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to answer - and found quite suddenly that he couldn’t think of a single thing to say. It was also difficult to speak around the lump in his throat, thudding loudly and painfully as if his own heart had decided to claw his way up his trachea. 

But that was what he was used to, wasn’t it? Perpetual wanting, perpetual withholding. Perpetual suffering. Perpetual lies that it would all resolve itself. 

He’d made money on it. Bound it up, sewed together pages with prose and sold it to others.

“I suppose,” he said weakly, and closed his eyes.

_ It would most definitely hurt _ . 

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We're starting off with a bit of a flashback to see how these two got started. :) There are some comments, and some emails... and a date (is it a date?) at The Garden.

_Ten years ago_

2004.03.12 (12:05 PM) User **8DeadlySins** replied to your comment:

yeah thanks for the review but uh

tl;dr 

you know what that means? Too Long Didnt Read 

if you wanna dissect this like it’s a bloody literary thesis on How To Fuck In the Late 16th Century be my guest but im not combin thru paragraphs on why olive oil doesnt work as lube. its fuckin Shakspeare fanfiction were all just out here having fun dont take it so seriously. its not real.

2004.03.13 (10:38 AM) User **EmailsFromAngels** replied to your comment:

I’m not sure where you get these ideas that fanfiction isn’t real writing but I can assure you - any writing you put out into the world IS absolutely ‘real’ and should be treated as such. When you publish these things online you give access to thousands who are your potential audience. Don’t you understand the impact you have in suggesting such an unhealthy practice as putting food items inside your body? It can result in horrid bacterial infections!

2004.03.14 (3:21 AM) User **8DeadlySins** replied to your comment:

its not my responsibility to protect the idiots who cant even do a google search prior to sticking a banana up their arse, thats just Natural Selection at work

If you don't like it, just write ur own stuff, Professor Things That Go Into Buttholes, i don't have time to research historical lubricants i have a life

2004.03.14 (7:45 AM) User **EmailsFromAngels** replied to your comment:

I have no issue with my own depictions - it’s yours that are suffering. If you’re pressed for time, then I highly recommend you look for a reliable proofreader to look through your writing. It might help you avoid these pitfalls, and I’m sure one of your many fans can help you out.

2004.03.16 (9:20 AM) User **EmailsFromAngels** replied to your comment:

That isn’t to say that the majority of your writing is similarly afflicted - in fact, I have greatly enjoyed the stories you’ve put out so far and the detail you manage to weave so expertly into the other relevant descriptions. I’ve been reading your other works for a long time and have never taken issue with the narration or the style of it.

It’s perhaps _because_ I’ve been a fan for so long that I insist so strongly on an accurate depiction and demand a similar quality from the sexual details as well. If I didn’t care at all, I would simply leave it at that.

2004.03.17 (8:57 AM) User **EmailsFromAngels** replied to your comment:

I do hope I haven’t put you off of it very much. I understand my wording was strong. I wanted to apologize if my previous emails have caused you any distress.

2004.03.18 (11:31 PM) User **8DeadlySins** replied to your comment:

whatever m8

if you think you can do better, prove it.

2004.03.19 (6:15 AM) User **EmailsFromAngels** replied to your comment:

Certainly. You’re welcome to read any of my own works. I’m also open to collaborations.

2004.03.19 (1:22 PM) User **8DeadlySins** replied to your comment:

ha right sure 

2004.03.19 (9:51 PM) User **8DeadlySins** commented on ‘ _In the Bastille_ ’:

Okay this is really good actually. Fucking dramatic but hot as well.

2004.03.19 (9:51 PM) User **8DeadlySins** commented on ‘ _When In Rome_ ’:

. . . holy fucking shit.

2004.03.20 (3:30 AM) User **8DeadlySins** sent you a message:

ok ok ok ok hold on

I’ve been reading your fics for a solid 7 hours now and I’m absolutely certain I recognize your style. There used to be a blog that put out 100k on the monthly that I was legendary for biblical erotica - something something FlamingSword? It had a ridiculous amount of subscribers. Then the website disappeared. You’re not ripping off that guy, are you?

2004.03.20 (8:20 AM) User **EmailsFromAngels** replied:

Oh! Yes, that was me. 

I gave away the domain.

2004.03.20 (8:24 AM) User **8DeadlySins** replied:

you WHAT

2004.03.20 (8:47 AM) User **EmailsFromAngels** replied:

It’s silly, really. A startup company by this lovely young couple approached me - they wanted to use it as their business name but you see, all the search results returned my works and they’re rather - well, rather unprofessional, as you understand. They were really very kind, and that account was old and rather needed a cleanup anyway so I just said - oh, yes, I’ll remove it. I archived the better part of it on my personal hard-drive but it’s gone now. They needed it more than I do.

2004.03.20 (8:51 AM) User **8DeadlySins** replied:

. . .

2004.03.20 (10:38 AM) User **8DeadlySins** replied:

So about that collab.

* * *

_3 Years Later_

**< 8DeadlySinsss@GeeMail.com>**

sent at 6:06AM, 2007.11.13 

SOS

**< 8DeadlySinsss@GeeMail.com>**

sent at 7:38AM, 2007.11.13 

Bloody hell I’m dying Aziraphale answer your phone, I KNOW you’re not sleeping, I KNOW you wake up at 6!!!!!!!

**< 8DeadlySinsss@GeeMail.com>**

sent at 7:54AM, 2007.11.13 

Okay, fine make me TYPE IT OUT instead!

Here’s the deal - I got offered to do a meetup at a bar - there might be editors there, reps from publishing companies. TONS of my followers will be there, we’re talking literally like 100+ people! I get to do an AMA they organized - they wanna know details from fuckin’ Noah’s Arc. 

I CANNOT DO THIS WITHOUT YOU. 

That fic is 200k??? _You_ wrote 50k of that, they’re gonna want to know DETAILS! You need to come with me, I _cannot_ do this alone.

Pls respond. 

**< 8DeadlySinsss@GeeMail.com>**

sent at 11:02AM, 2007.11.13 

Aziraphale PLEASE please please please please 

PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE

I’ll pay for your drinks, your dinner, your taxi - I’ll pick you up and drive you myself!

I’ll never ask you for ANYTHING, EVER again, I swear to Satan!

  
  


**< AZFell@Hotmale.net>**

sent at 1:45 PM, 2007.11.13 

Crowley,

I would like to remind you that I mentioned working late nights at the shop for reshelving nearly a week ago when we last talked I was up late last night and forgot to turn my phone back on. The fact that it has completely flown from your mind serves as evidence that you are not thinking clearly.

You have my sympathies for your predicament, but aren’t you the one who was specifically against showing your face to your readers? I’ve never even met you in person despite the fact that we live in the same city. Are you really sure this is a good idea?

Sincerely, AZ Fell 

  
  


**< 8DeadlySinsss@GeeMail.com>**

sent at 1:49PM, 2007.11.13 

I know, but I lost my other part-time job for this shit and if I have a chance of making it big, THIS IS IT!!!!!

Please, I know it’s a nuisance but this is important to me. I’ll owe you - you can hold this over my head for anything! I’ll write whatever you need - I’ll never speak ill of Wilde again. I’ll finish the Regency story for you.

I know you’re stuck on it - I can rewrite it. I’ll do it. Swear to satan - god - Whoever.

  
  


**< AZFell@Hotmale.net>**

sent at 1:55 PM, 2007.11.13 

Crowley,

Fine. But I’m warning you - it’s a mess. The entire first three chapters need to be redone and the middle ones are mostly dialogue. 

Sincerely, AZ Fell 

  
  


**< 8DeadlySinsss@GeeMail.com>**

sent at 1:57PM, 2007.11.13 

You’ll do it????????

  
  


**< AZFell@Hotmale.net>**

sent at 2:00 PM, 2007.11.13 

Yes, alright. 

  
  


**< 8DeadlySinsss@GeeMail.com>**

sent at 2:13PM, 2007.11.13 

I OWE YOU MY LIFE!!!

OK I’m going to pick you up - tell me where you want to meet! The event is on the 14th, at 7:00PM. I’ll send you a picture of myself in a second so you know who to look for. 

  
  


**< AZFell@Hotmale.net>**

sent at 2:32PM, 2007.11.13 

You can get me from my bookshop in Soho - I’ve attached a map to the email.

Just to clarify though - the 14th of what? December? January?

Attachment: <SohoMap.jpeg>

  
  


**< 8DeadlySinsss@GeeMail.com>**

sent at 3:04PM, 2007.11.13 

14th of November.

Oh shit that’s tomorrow isn’t it.

  
  


**< AZFell@Hotmale.net>**

sent at 3:09 PM, 2007.11.13 

Crowley.

You cannot be serious.

Sincerely, Aziraphale

  
  


**< 8DeadlySinsss@GeeMail.com>**

sent at 3:15PM, 2007.11.13 

Aziraphale I swear I’ll do ANYTHING!! This is my chance of a lifetime - just for one night! You finish work at 5 right? I’ll come to you - just be ready at 6:30. Thanks for the map. Shit I can’t believe we never ran into each other, I’m in Soho all the time.

Here’s a photo of me - it’s from last year since I couldn’t find a more recent one. My hair is short though; recently had it cut. I’ll wear a black blazer. And sunglasses, because you know how my icon was just my eyes for a while, but they’re kinda recognizable so I might want to cover them up just in case.

Attachment: <2006IsrealTrip_IMG00294>

  
  


**< 8DeadlySinsss@GeeMail.com>**

sent at 3:40PM, 2007.11.13 

Hello???

You ARE still up for it right?

  
  


**< 8DeadlySinsss@GeeMail.com>**

sent at 4:55PM, 2007.11.13 

Aziraphale, I’m begging you. I know it’s short notice. I’m sorry. Work with me here.

  
  


**< 8DeadlySinsss@GeeMail.com>**

sent at 6:26PM, 2007.11.13 

I’ll literally do anything.

I’m building a shrine to Oscar Wilde in my living room as we speak.

  
  


**< 8DeadlySinsss@GeeMail.com>**

sent at 8:39PM, 2007.11.13 

Was it the photo? Was the photo weird? 

I swear I’m not a creep or a stalker - my friend just took that while we were out about the city and thought it was ‘artistic’ or something. I just don’t have any other ones, I usually don’t photograph well.

  
  


**< AZFell@Hotmale.net>**

sent at 2:30 AM, 2007.11.13 

My apologies for not responding more promptly. Got caught up in something.

The photo is fine.

I’ll see you tomorrow.

  
  


* * *

_ “Tomorrow” _

It had been a mistake. 

Aziraphale had known it from the moment Crowley stepped out from the car parked precariously with one wheel on the curb. Swayed on his impossibly long legs, spun around as if to show off the inkblack jeans clinging to his thighs for dear life. His jacket snapped over his sharpcast shoulders. Hair - a fiery red, swept up in an artistically wild mess. The jaw - oh good lord, that jaw! 

No, Aziraphale had known before that. 

He’d known it was a mistake earlier - a day earlier, to be precise, when he first looked at the photo on his screen, taking in the profile - the moody brow, the strong nose, the cigarette tilted from the lips. Everything was already doomed from the start, but what really did it was the copper hair, tangling with the light of the sunset shimmering from behind the man, casting everything into handsome shadow as it set behind the Jerusalem skyline.

It had taken him hours to shake off the initial shock. He stood up, walked to the kitchen upstairs, washed his face, sat down in his chair to think, then stood up again, paced the shop, rearranged some books. 

Several times he almost sat down to answer the email but his hands staged a protest, refusing to work any sort of buttons aside from the ones that shut his trousers. Even after succumbing to that route, further attempts at writing as a tool of communication proved embarrassingly unhelpful. 

_ I’m sorry,  _ he typed out at one point. _ I don’t think I can deal with this, emotionally, mentally, sexually. _

That wouldn’t do. He backspaced furiously, stood up again and went to get some scotch.

_ I’m afraid I can’t _ , he wrote. _ We had a deal to be honest with each other for the sake of transparency, for the sake of this partnership. You lied to me. You never told me you were gorgeous. This changes things _ .

He couldn’t quite say that. Erasing the entire thing again he abandoned the scotch to wander around upstairs and shuffle through his suits, his sweaters, his bow ties, before returning once more to the email. 

_ You know what, something came up. Don’t think I can make it. I’ll be busy masturbating furiously to the image of the sunset kissing your throat, wishing it was me. Pretending I’m the light painting gold into the coils of your hair. Coming to the idea of being the cigarette you close your mouth around. _

Alright, so it was dramatic. Well in his own defence, so was Aziraphale. He had no qualms about it; he knew what he was. He was a dramatic, frumpy, bookish gay man in his early forties who dressed like a museum relic, wrote historical fiction in his free time and dabbled in adult fiction as a hidden side-hobby. He knew he and Crowley were around the same age - they’d discussed as much, and they’d discussed their interests, and their pasts, and their shared history when it came to struggling against a viciously religious upbringing (which was a somewhat polarizing argument that still managed to unite them in an odd Agree To Disagree sort of way).

And he had - foolishly - presumed that Crowley would be much like him when it came to the rest of it. He had expected to meet another socially-inept middle aged mess, an endearingly ridiculous 40-something that he had grown quite fond of over their past three years of online friendship. He had pictured someone short, maybe with glasses, maybe with a 5 o’clock shadow. A poor taste in clothing he could tsk at.

Instead Crowley was

This.

Something too good to be real. Too good to be true.

Somewhere between Crowley’s fourth email and Aziraphale’s fourth glass of scotch, he had managed to talk himself into exactly that sort of conviction. It  _ was _ too good to be true! Photoshop existed, and the limitations of its abilities were just mysterious enough to Aziraphale to work with his theories. He was sure Crowley wouldn’t send a stranger’s photo in his stead but surely - surely the date on the image was edited. Surely that wasn’t only a year ago. It was probably from his youth - he had just been too embarrassed to send a more recent, truthful depiction. Aziraphale would forgive him that. 

That was what had granted him the ability to sleep through the night (that, and not an insignificant amount of alcohol) and be able to walk out of the bookshop the next day to the vintage car pulling up to meet him, pretending everything would be fine. 

And then Crowley had stepped out, and his long, supermodel legs immediately kicked any hope he had right back down again. 

“Aziraphale?” It was the same voice that had accosted him over the phone thousands of times. Warm, familiar, just a bit scratchy from the occasional indulgence in tobacco products. Hearing it now, coming from the impossible lips of the impossible figure in front of him, was like a fever-dream. “You’re even more posh than I imagined! Bloody hell.”

“Bloody hell,” echoed Aziraphale weakly, praying he would drown in his clothes, disappear into his scarf and dip below the collar of his jacket and melt to join the rest of the muck pooling along the street-side curb. “Crowley. You look... even more... like the photo.”

“What’s that?” asked Crowley and sauntered closer. Aziraphale had wished desperately to flinch back but instead the movement of the man’s hips seemed to be hypnotically pulling him in. He tried to ascribe it to the concern of how many vertebrae a man was allowed to have before it became a health hazard to others around him, but failed spectacularly. “It’s great to see you - well, actually see you. Meet you.” Crowley cleared his throat. “You ready to go then? Or should we shake hands first? Seeing as it’s the first time we’ve actually met. Don’t know how you do this...” He appraised Aziraphale’s flushed face and quickly reconsidered. “Not that we have to. Just figured.”

“Oh, yes, of course.” Struggling to snap himself out of the daze, Aziraphale thrust his hand forward. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

Crowley’s anxious half-smile twitched into a fuller, more genuine one, and pleasure was exactly what Aziraphale experienced in a thunderstrike straight down into the core of him. “Likewise,” he replied, and wound their fingers into a sturdy grip

If Aziraphale had the ability to stop time, he would have. There was something surreal about standing on the corner of his street near his bookshop, linking hands with Crowley, that he wanted to commit to memory properly. He knew he would not likely have this chance again. Why would he? This was only a matter of time before the other pulled away. In fact, all of this was only for a night, after all, and beyond the one-off chance of needing to meet in person, something similar would not occur again. 

Suddenly, the veil of anonymity they’d had online seemed like a life raft. He had never noticed how good he had it when they’d both been blissfully unaware of each other. Presently, however, he had fallen overboard and was struggling in the ocean and there was no going back. The raft was lost - he was lost. He couldn’t take back the fact that Crowley knew what he looked like. He couldn’t un-drown

All that was left for him as an option was treading water as long as he could. 

So he got into the car, smiled courteously, forced himself to talk. Even managed to fall back into old habits and scolded Crowley for driving too fast. The conversation was blissfully easy after that - no awkward silences to allow him to fall back into overthinking. He did know Crowley well after all - their three-year-long friendship had been punctuated with thousands of late-night calls, debates, and jokes. As if they’d known each other for centuries they nose-dived into their typical banter, picking right back up from their email, then smoothly sailing into their previous phone quibble about Victorian era dress-codes, then on to talks of museums they’d both been to recently. 

The London lights that snuck in through the windows of the car and sometimes illuminated Crowley’s figure helped Aziraphale spy more details. Under the guise of complaining about the number on the speedometer, he carefully watched the other’s elegant hands grip the wheel, observed the way his hair coiled just a touch under the weight of gel. Upon closer inspection, Crowley did not look as young as the photo made it seem - but this discovery did not bring any relief. Instead it made Aziraphale realize, with a startled urgency, that the soft lines on the man’s face and the darkened bits of stubble under his ear only made him more handsome. 

By the time they parked at the Garden Aziraphale could have sworn hours had passed. Crowley got out and, after waiting a beat, walked around to the other side and opened the door for him. 

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said, hoping he didn’t look as flustered as he felt. “But I’m already here, no need to butter up to me anymore. I can’t exactly escape now.”

“You could still make a run for it,” Crowley joked. “Change your mind and leave me to the wolves.”

“Me? Make a run for it?” Aziraphale asked incredulously, stepping out of the car and grabbing the top of it to steady himself. “Are you mad? Especially after that rollercoaster you subjected me to? I can’t feel my legs well enough to walk, let alone run.”

“That might have been the plan all along,” said Crowley with a grin and jutted out his elbow. “Need help getting to the door?”

Dropping his eyes to the offered support, Aziraphale flushed again but fought back the instinct to refuse. _ Only one chance _ , he thought to himself.  _ Take it or leave it _ .

He took it. 

Visibly pleased, Crowley guided them around towards the lit up stairs, cordially ignoring the fact that Aziraphale was leaning into him far more than absolutely necessary. He even opened the door, letting the other go inside first with a needless flourish of his hand. 

“You’ve been reading those Gentlemen Code blog posts again I take it?” the author asked as they entered. “I’m telling you they’re rubbish.”

“Actually the last thing I read was your Pride and Prejudice fanfiction,” Crowley admitted in a low voice. He glanced at Aziraphale out of the corner of his eye. “Only the parts with debauchery in it, of course.”

“That entire work is debauchery,” Aziraphale replied with a soft frown, mentally shuffling through his memory of the chapters - it had been a gift to one of his more loyal fans who had very specific tastes involving a fair bit of BDSM. “I didn’t think it was your st--”

But before he could continue his interrogation of his friend’s questionable consumption of fanworks, they had arrived at the bar and were immediately recognized and accosted by several of the Organizers. 

It was difficult to keep up any sort of conversation after that, because despite his earlier insistence on being there, Crowley was clearly physically uncomfortable with the attention he was getting. And attention was certainly got - unsurprisingly, 100% of the people at the bar had functioning eyes, and those that were already interested quickly factored his looks into it. 

The object of their affection, meanwhile, avoided their approaches like they were bullets, deflecting every complement with a joke and hovering in Aziraphale’s periphery instead, as if he hoped to use the other like a human meat shield. Aziraphale himself, who had briefly wondered if it would be difficult for Crowley to convince them to do the AMA with him - a nobody - quickly calmed down once he saw that nothing short of a crowbar would be able to pry the nervous fan-favorite off of himself. Crowley’s adoring fans quickly seemed to come to the same conclusion because by the time they shoved a mic into his hands they’d also handed Aziraphale a bottle of water as if they’d accepted him as a sort of Buy-One-Get-One-Free bargain.

At 8PM Crowley was gently bullied onto a stool on the small stage opposite of the bar counter and pinned under a ridiculous amount of stage lights. Somewhere between his car and the event he had procured a pair of sunglasses and had dutifully donned them. It made him look even more like a movie star and also helped at hiding the relatively clear panicked sheen to his eyes. Aziraphale, who had been allowed to sit on the side to serve as ‘moral support’, as he called it, was close enough to lean in and chime in with ‘reminders’ when Crowley drew a blank.

It ended up working out much better than he expected. Most of the stage-side questions were not Aziraphale’s specialty anyway, and Crowley eventually got into the rhythm of discussing the plot points he’d personally woven together. Afterwards they were shuffled off stage and seated at the bar and given several drinks - on the house - and were once again crowded by more fans to answer more ‘adult-themed’ inquiries. 

For this part Aziraphale was close enough to intervene naturally. Every time Crowley froze up when hearing about a chapter he hadn’t actually written, Aziraphale would take a sip from his drink, frown thoughtfully and say something like ‘oh, that was the one about them getting together in the hidden room behind the...’ and Crowley would usually pick it back up and play along. 

It worked - magically, mysteriously, miraculously - it worked. And Aziraphale, despite having started the evening hoping to milk his luck for all it was worth, instead found genuine laughter bubbling up in his throat as Crowley made another pun on foot fetishes (‘really makes  _ running _ this business a breeze’). 

It was going so much better than he had anticipated that he had no idea what to do with all the positive emotions he had not made room for. He was giddy, he was tipsy, and he was sitting at the side of the handsomest man in the room, commanding his attention at least 30% of the time. Never in his life had he thought he would get to have this. 

Whether it was alcohol or the endorphins he had no idea, but after talking up a storm with several avid readers he even agreed to a few photos - with the girls taking turns squishing themselves between himself and Crowley and striking fancy poses. 

“Don’t go posting that online now,” Crowley warned light-heartedly, and the girl with the camera promised that she only meant to send it to their other friends to prove it had actually happened. Aziraphale, his brain out to lunch with the realization that Crowley was leaning against his arm, didn’t even think about repercussions and instead offered a gleeful little wave good-bye to the gaggle of women, idly thinking about how kind they’d all been to include him despite the fact that they had no idea who he was and why he was in attendance. 

That specific mystery resolved itself faster than he expected. A minute after another fan snapped a photo with them, she turned around, made a vague motion tracing the limited space between their shoulders and asked rather forwardly: “So is it true that you two are...?” 

Aziraphale’s heart stuttered in its rhythm and tripped, spilling all of his previously bubblish giddiness all over the floor where it immediately turned into ice-cold slush. The rose-colored tint of the evening, full of fans so politely allowing Aziraphale to follow along with their favorite author, had suddenly taken on a completely different meaning.

_ They’d assumed we were together, _ he thought incredulously.

_ Together _ together.

He almost began to laugh - and then felt his eyes stinging with embarrassment - and then swallowed it back and pieced together a polite smile. “Oh, we’re n--”

“Yeah,” Crowley cut in. 

And then he reached down and grabbed -  _ grabbed! _ \- Aziraphale’s hand. 

The woman, somehow completely missing the deer-in-the-headlights look sported by half of the party, nodded cordially. “Oh, I see. You hadn’t mentioned having a partner on your blog so I just thought--” Her eyes flickered between them, looking for an explanation.

“We’ve uh... just recently gotten to it,” replied Crowley. “Known each other for a while though.”

_ That part is true enough _ , thought Aziraphale because it was due to this very fact that he was able to pick up the tell-tale signs of complete and utter panic between the hairline splits in Crowley’s voice.

He didn’t remember when the woman walked away, because his head was full of glass, and he didn’t feel well. He only came back to himself when Crowley let go of his hand and breathing felt like an option again. 

“Sorry,” Crowley barked out before sloshing more alcohol into his mouth. “Shouldn’t have-- I just... They keep coming over and trying to flirt and... Sorry.”

Flexing his hand against the phantom of the fingers he’d recently lost, Aziraphale lowered his eyes and angled himself away to ease the sting. He didn’t  _ mind _ , he tried to convince himself, not really. It wasn’t as if it was Crowley’s fault. From how well the evening had gone, the only direction left to go was down. By all accounts he should have been grateful that he got as much out of it as he had. That Crowley had trusted him enough to play pretend so readily.

But despite the ample practice he had in convincing others with pretty words and phrases, he was not altogether convincing himself of anything at this moment.

“You know,” he began to say, just to fill the void of the awkward silence, “for someone who writes so much about romance, you are certainly very bad at it.”

Crowley paused the drink a centimeter away from his lips. “Ng?” he said

“You have so many willing participants,” Aziraphale explained needlessly - even to his own ears he sounded strangely upset - he wasn’t upset! Not in the slightest. Maybe a little stressed. “And you’ve not given a single one of them a chance.” He set his still-empty hand down on his lap and looked up at the small groups of people now mingling by the individual tables. “Instead you’re hiding behind me, of all people.”

“You of all people?” repeated Crowley incredulously.

“Just now for example.” Aziraphale nodded to the woman, who was making her way back to her table, presumably to report the rejection. “She was very beautiful. Clearly interested, if she went and asked. Isn’t she your type?”

He didn’t plan on meeting Crowley’s eyes at first. Stared stubbornly straight ahead. 

But when Crowley didn’t answer he had to take the bait and look back at the other. Had to gaze at the colorless reflection of himself in the man’s dark glasses. They were frustrating, but Aziraphale could see the drop of the jaw, the complete befuddlement written all over Crowley’s face even with the other obstacles in the way. 

“Not my-- You-- Do you even know what my type is?” Crowley choked out.

“You said you like blondes,” supplied Aziraphale. He remembered a conversation from a year ago - they’d both been drunk on the phone with each other, joking about a character they were co-writing, and Crowley had mentioned it offhand. “She was blonde.”

“You’re blond.”

Aziraphale felt his eyes widen and hurried to grab hold of them (figuratively speaking), schooling his expression back into casual indifference despite his quickening pulse.  _ It doesn’t mean what you think it means _ , he scolded himself stubbornly.  _ He’s just making a point. He’s not-- And besides, you’re-- _ “I’m a man,” he said. And then, as if to make up for the ridiculousness of the announcement, added padding to the sentence: “I know it’s difficult to tell underneath the layer of book dust and waistcoats but I assure you--”

“I’m attracted to men,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale lost the mental battle with his eyelids. He could feel his eyebrows drifting away towards his hairline at the same time. His heart was somewhere in his throat, drumming on the door of his esophagus, wanting to be let out. His feet were missing in action - he couldn’t feel them. Overall, he felt himself coming apart and floating away limb by limb, with little left to hold himself together.

“I mean,” added Crowley. “I  _ am _ attracted to women but. Men. Also men. I’m bisexual.” 

“Oh,” said Aziraphale. 

“Yeah,” said Crowley. 

It may have been the lighting of the establishment, or Crowley may have been going quite red about the ears. In a domino effect, Aziraphale could feel himself warming up as well. The tension crackling between them could have probably powered a-- a... a contraption of some sort. 

Oh, this wouldn’t do. Aziraphale was losing brain-cells. The rest of his body he wasn’t particularly attached to - but his clear mind, more than any other attributes, he still had a bit of pride in.

“In retrospect,” he said. “That does explain a lot.”

Crowley opened his mouth as if to speak, failed, and then tried again: “Such as...?” he asked in a brave imitation of casual civility. 

“The eight-page email you wrote to me after you went to see Hamlet, about that fellow who played Hamlet.” Aziraphale raised his drink to his mouth and caught it with his bottom lip, pleasantly surprised to find that his hand wasn’t trembling anymore. He took a sip and even managed to summon a small smile. “You were very cross. And clearly very taken with him.”

“I was very drunk,” countered Crowley. “Wait-- How do you know it was eight pages?”

“I may or may not have printed and framed it above my desk as An Exemplary Form of Literary Analysis.”

It was like the curtains opening up - Crowley snorted abruptly and then they were both laughing, red faced from the combined relief of the moment having passed. The tension leaked away and they were back again, just two old friends side by side. The previous comments faded into the background and in his mind, Aziraphale took the information like an old book, shut the color of Crowley’s warming skin between the pages, slotted a bookmark into the way the other man’s hair caught the light and then shelved the entire ordeal as far back as possible, determined not to retrieve it again - potentially ever. 

The evening was winding to a close. Around 11PM the crowds were dispersing and they bid goodbye to the remaining few that stayed behind to pick up the extra trash and pay the owner and ambled outside, still falling over each other laughing about something or other of extreme insignificance. 

“Oh,” realized Crowley as they swayed towards his antique car, still waiting for them in the parking lot. “Can’t drive. I didn’t think about that.”

“No breaking news there,” snorted Aziraphale, though he was still in good spirits. “We’ll have to order a cab.”

“I actually live nearby,” said Crowley, turning to look back at him with a bit more control than should be possible given his levels of inebriation. “Could come back to my place, if you’d like.”

Aziraphale, who had been in the process of tying his tartan scarf around his throat to shield it from the windchill, immediately found that his internal temperature skyrocketed so much that he didn’t need to finish the action. He also might have forgotten how to breathe. 

_ It couldn’t possibly be _ , he thought firmly for the third time that evening. 

He looked up. Crowley was looking back at him, waiting. He had barely known the man 5 full hours and yet it was difficult to miss the nervous jump of his adam’s apple, the way he scrunched his shoulders and bounced his heel - a sneak preview of being shaken apart with anxiety. Aziraphale had known these habits barely 5 full hours - but the Crowley hidden behind them was someone he’d been friends with for years. 

It was like realizing that English had many forms - speech and script. He was already fluent in the spoken form - in the man’s shortcuts through conversation, in his bastardization of curses, in the way he always talked too much when he felt the need to fill up space in self-defence. Seeing the lines of Crowley’s familiar patterns finally written into a body, the letters of each of his motions, it wasn’t difficult to put two and two together and start reading.

Aziraphale was good at reading. 

_ It  _ could _ possibly be _ , he allowed himself to think for a brief second. 

Then he banished the thought again. 

“You’re drunk,” said Aziraphale, trying to sound convinced and convincing - whichever one did the job.

“Not as drunk as all that,” Crowley countered. “I could drink more, honestly. If you want to do that instead, I know a few bars. We could...” He glanced up, across the street, and stuffed his hands into his pockets, shrugging so vehemently his collar swallowed up his ears. “...could go find you someone else to go home with.” 

Aziraphale’s eyebrows were threatening to defect to his hairline. _ Someone else? _ He thought in offence, and then skipped ahead to the bigger picture. “Are you suggesting we go  _ cruising _ ?”

“Yeah? If you want? I don’t know. Haven’t been recently. Don’t have many friends that are-- Don’t have many friends in general. ‘Cept you I guess.” Crowley’s speech was picking up pace at alarming rates, like he was trying to get the words out before he could think them. “Could be fun, you know? When’s the last time you went cruising? And don’t say 1912, because that’s not the cruising I’m talking about.” 

Aziraphale paused his open-mouthed staring to frown in befuddlement. “Nineteen twelve? What... Oh, the  _ Titanic _ \--” He groaned and rolled his eyes as much as was physically possible. “Good lord, Crowley, I’m not THAT old.”

“Well, then stop acting so shocked that I suggested it!” The other was beginning to undulate a little bit more than usual. Perhaps the cold was getting to him - but judging by the tightness of the jaw and the nervous way he was kicking the pavement, temperature may not have been the culprit. A few other possibilities were finally beginning to look realistic. “You don’t have to, I just figured. I owe you. From tonight. And I really hate being indebted to people, so I figured. We could...” 

“Go back to your place?” Aziraphale echoed. 

Crowley’s 60fps became a still-frame. In spite of it being utterly impossible to tell, Aziraphale pictured his wide eyes behind his glasses. His throat bobbed. He licked his lips and in the brief millisecond it took for his tongue to become visible, Aziraphale could already imagine a thousand other scenes it could be involved in. Call it a talent. Call it desperation.

Because he was a pessimist, and overly critical of himself, and silly, sure. But he wasn’t stupid. 

And he wasn’t in Crowley’s league - not by miles and miles - but Crowley was clearly suggesting it.

Such a chance would not present itself again, surely. 

Surely. 

“That is,” he said, clearing his throat with the edge of habitual worry that was beginning to creep over him. “If you’re still... offering?”

“Offering?” Crowley rasped. “I’m-- Yeah I’m still bloody offering, what else do you think I’m doing out here in this freezing cold?” He seemed on edge, lightly vibrating with nerves - but he was vibrating closer, which was a good sign. 

Aziraphale took a deep breath and slowly reached up and hooked his fingers on Crowley’s shades. There was just a bit of hesitation - but the other didn’t protest, merely pulled his head back to allow the arms to dislodge from his ears. Behind the darkened glass, his eyes were guarded, full of far more emotion than Aziraphale had been ready for. His breath caught, and he found himself struggling to say something - anything - to break the tension.

“Well, allow me to tempt you to--” Crowley’s throat jumped eagerly. “Oh, no,” he corrected, and watched with growing curiosity at the muted fireworks display of emotions playing out on the face before him. “...that’s your job, isn’t it? Dashing romantic author that you are.”

Crowley’s lips were twitching into a hopeful, very flirtatious sort of smile. It did things to Aziraphale beyond the obvious physical reaction - stirred some sort of warmth deep inside him that he didn’t quite feel ready to put a name to. Though thankfully, the fact that the man was licking his lips again helped recalibrate his priorities to more primal ones very quickly. “I can certainly--do my best,” Crowley choked out.

“Oh,” murmured Aziraphale, and reached down, tucking the sunglasses into the V of the black silk button-up shirt. “It’s not going to take that much, trust me.”

Later, when questioned (by his own self at 3AM on many a sleepless night) Aziraphale would bring up, in his own defence, a specific quote from a specific source which he had referenced to make his decisions for that night. It had served him well in the past, and he had hoped, against his better judgement, that it would be true in this particular case as well.

_ The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it. _

It should have worked.

Then again, Oscar had been wrong before. 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The following chapter will be earning us our E rating. If that is NOT something you want to read, you can pretty much skip the chapter in its entirety and not really lose track of the plot because yes, it will just be utter indulgence and shagging. Cheers!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get heated up VERY fast. (This is the boning part of the Boning but Pining Tag.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To reiterate - this entire chapter is NOTHING BUT SEX. If you are only here for the plot, you can just read the next chapter and you won't have missed anything.

* * *

Things did not go as planned.

Not that he was complaining. No, far from it. Upon revisiting his plans and comparing them to what had happened, he realized that his expectations had been quite abysmally low. In fact, it was silly how low they had been.

After all, he  _ knew _ what Crowley was into. What Crowley wrote about, and read about, and what he liked. 

What he didn’t realize was just how _ much _ Crowley liked it until he had Crowley pressed up against the wall of his own dark flat, biting his lip for him and pushing a knee up into the other’s frighteningly tight trousers and the erection therein. 

One of them moaned. He couldn’t be bothered to think who. He just knew the feeling was mutual - or at least he thought it was, judging by the way the other was trying to disrobe him like Aziraphale was a Christmas present that had appeared under the tree overnight. Which was awfully flattering and absolutely confounding to him on all levels. Crowley’s fingers were under his shirt collar, pressing down their weight on his shoulders as if testing to see if he could bear it, and Aziraphale knew he could because he was. He was bracing his feet to the wooden floor and pushing Crowley up, opening him at the collarbones and growing onto him like ivy. And Crowley - Crowley let him. Even hooked a leg up over his thigh. Hissed softly - ever so softly - into Aziraphale’s neck, tugging at the edge of his waistcoat to give his tongue more room to work. Bit into the skin at his throat, eliciting a reciprocating hiss.

“Careful with that” Aziraphale gasped. His fingers traversed the ribs hidden under the thin black shirt, reading them like braille. 

“Vintage?” Crowley asked breathlessly.

“You flatter me.” Aziraphale released him in order to help out, though he kept his knee up where Crowley seemed to be enjoying it. 

“I’m just making wild guesses, actually,” admitted Crowley, struggling out of his own jacket like snakeskin. “Was on my mind because of the Pride and Prejudice fanfiction--”

“Which is mostly sex, if I recall,” Aziraphale remarked. His own shirt he kept on, but his hands were finding their way to Crowley’s belt, beginning to take guesses as to how to rid him of it. “Is that what’s on your mind?”

“Seems on topic for what we’re going to be doing,” Crowley replied.

“Think complimenting my work will win you favors in bed?”

“Wasn’t really looking for favors,” murmured Crowley huskily. “Quite the opposite, really. Seemed rather the point of that... Chapter... 3 was it? That was mostly what I was thinking of. If you... take requests.”

Aziraphale paused his struggle with the trousers (why were they so bloody tight? How did the man get into them in the first place?) and glanced up. The moonlight from the window in Crowley’s ulta-modern apartment was making it rather easy to see his eyes. They really were stunning - a color closer to gold than brown, speckled throughout with green. And at the moment, they were looking at Aziraphale with a specific sort of desperation that made a knot in his stomach tighten and come undone simultaneously.

“You...” he began, stopped, and began again. “Chapter 3. The part where he--”

“Yeah,” breathed Crowley, flushing a darker color.

“You want me to--”

“Take control.”

Aziraphale felt the floor tilting, and it had nothing to do with his consumption of alcohol and everything to do with his blood leaving his head to migrate south for the winter. 

“I mean,” Crowley added, looking suddenly less sure. “You don’t have to, if you’re not... into that.” 

Aziraphale stared silently back at him. ‘Into that’ didn’t even begin to cover it. If he had to confess now, he would admit to everything. He was no longer capable of denying that he didn’t want to rip Crowley’s clothes clean off and have him against the coffee table (he’d seen one in the dark when they’d come in, but really, the specifics of what furniture was involved were inconsequential to the bigger picture.) Crowley’s lips were shining, and the moisture accented the red mark he’d left from his overly enthusiastic kiss earlier. Proof that he’d been there, that he got to claim that territory as his. It would be lying to say that he didn’t want to continue in the same vein and map the man’s entire body, preferably with his tongue.

He had very little self-control left to spare, but his remaining brain-cells suggested that at least a bit of protest would be the responsible thing to do, so he gathered up his remaining willpower

“It’s not that I don’t... want to,” he said. “It’s just that. You’re... we’re both drunk.” His fingers, unaware of the conversation taking place, unhooked the button on the stupidly tight jeans. 

“I’m sobering up  _ real _ fast here,” Crowley breathed. He had gone rather still against the wall, obliging Aziraphale’s traveling hands their exploration.

“It’s a bit fast to immediately jump to that sort of thing, isn’t it?” His palm turned, pressed against the flat of Crowley’s stomach, then slipped lower, fingers inching under the waistband of some sort of expensive silky underwear. 

“We don’t have to do anything...ah... extreme...” Crowley’s voice hitched and he slid down the wall a bit, leaning more heavily against the knee still so kindly positioned between his legs. “I just-- I like being told what to do.”

Aziraphale, who had been watching his mouth, flipped his gaze up like a switch and refocused on his eyes. Crowley’s hair was a mess - he had his fingers in it merely minutes ago, as they’d stumbled out of the lift. The man had been warm and pliant in his hold, had pressed up against him like a snake seeking warmth, had twisted his hands into his lapels. He was a vision even in the low light - bitten lips and splayed shoulders. An open shirt collar, showing just a sneak peek of what was below. 

Aziraphale had never wanted anything more in his whole life. He imagined this was what Eve must have felt like in the garden, being offered the untouchable. It was knowledge he was seeking now. The possibility of knowing Crowley - biblically. Knowing what it would be like to push his tongue into the warm, inviting mouth again. Knowing how the other would sound coming undone by his hand. Knowing how they might fit together, how Crowley would look as he lay underneath him. A hunger he hadn’t felt for another human being for ages had stirred up and began to snap its teeth at the careful cage he’d constructed for it.

And Crowley - Crowley was looking at him with his chin tipped up, his throat wide open for striking. An irresistible fruit.

Aziraphale took a shuddering breath, tried to reel himself back in. 

“Where was that kink three years ago, hm?” he asked. His palm pushed lower. “When I was giving you constructive criticism on your terrible choice of lubricant for your story?”

Crowley chuckled, but his back was arching to the touch of Aziraphale’s other hand sliding up the expanse of his spine. “‘S’all about consent, isn’t it?” he hissed quietly. “I daresay you’re in a far better position to critique what lubricant is about to be involved this time around.”

Without permission, Aziraphale’s mouth twitched into a smile. He was losing the battle and he knew it. His hands had already passed the event horizon on the black hole of Crowley’s impossible trousers. “Am I now?” he murmured, and glanced back up into the other’s eyes, finding them shining devilishly, promising a thousand things Aziraphale was already looking forward to. “And what position would that be?”

Crowley’s responding grin was almost enough to make him go weak at the knees.

Almost.

* * *

Aziraphale had done this before, of course. 

Despite the senseless teasing about his interests and how well they did or did not match his actual age, he was not a complete shut-in. He’d experimented in his youth, he’d gone back with random men he’d met in bars here or there. It was never an entirely comfortable experience, but he had gotten what he needed out of it - an exploration of his potential, a delve into the desires he kept so deeply hidden. Although it was not an unpleasant endeavor, he had learned quite early on that his standards were rather high, as was his ability to ignore sexual thoughts. This ended up propelling him into what was an accidental but tolerable bout of abstinence. 

But this - now - what was happening in Crowley’s bedroom... there was nothing tolerable about this. 

He could not stand to run his fingers through Crowley’s hair without feeling the urge to grip a little tighter, to pull that wonderfully warm noise from the other’s throat. He could not handle the way Crowley pressed his whole face into his neck and opened his mouth, threatening his skin with teeth. He couldn’t manage the way Crowley backed him up against the edge of what was probably a bed (no time to look now, but the mattress felt soft on the back of his knees) and gripped his hips. 

“Down you go,” he breathed with the sort of coy, besting smile that still made fireworks ignite in the lower part of Aziraphale’s abdomen. 

He couldn’t  _ not _ smile back. “I was rather under the impression I was in charge?” he replied, and spread his feet, almost imperceptibly, as Crowley shoved against him a little harder. All for naught. 

“You’re--” Crowley huffed, clearly surprised with his lack of success. “You’re a bloody tank!” His hands, which had been previously occupied with the quick evacuation of Aziraphale’s shirt from its tuck into trousers, came up to his shoulders and curled into his biceps. “Christ, what do you do in that bookshop?”

“I shelve books, mostly,” Aziraphale chuckled, and, after a brief consideration, grabbed the man’s waist and spun them, throwing Crowley flat onto his back on top of the bedsheets. 

He expected protest, complaints about foul play, but instead he saw the other’s face flood with color and his eyes light up with some sort of thrill. “Bloody hell,” he hissed. “What books? Are you hiding the Codex Gigas in your back room? Bench press it in your free time, do you?”

Aziraphale chuckled quietly in lieu of an answer, slipping one knee up onto the edge of the bed and beginning to undo his bow-tie. The room’s modern-looking wall lights, which were just enough to draw their silhouettes in a soft golden glow, were evidently perfectly positioned to catch Crowley’s eyes in the most appealing way. Those same eyes were now tracking the movement of his hands with a desperate sort of hunger - the same Aziraphale himself felt at that moment. It was a novel experience, being watched so intently, and although it was not altogether unpleasant, it made him feel strangely exposed. Far more so than Crowley, despite the fact that only one of them was currently shirtless, with an unbuttoned pair of skintight jeans. 

Aziraphale swallowed, the motion brushing his own knuckles as he undid the top button of his shirt. Perhaps both of them were due a good distraction.

“Do remove those for me, will you?” he asked softly, leaning forward and sliding one hand up the calf extended towards him. 

“Ngk,” Crowley said, giving a full body shudder, and slumped back onto his shoulder-blades immediately, lifting his hips to wiggle his pale legs free. The smooth, rolling motion of it was tantalizing in and of itself, but the real point of interest for Aziraphale was the urgency with which he had been obliged to his request. 

“Underwear too, darling,” he said quietly, now watching for a reaction.

Without fail, Crowley made another noise, this one much deeper, and all but yanked the silky things off of himself. His chest was heaving, and he was flat on his back again, but his cock, now free, was standing at full attention. Aziraphale leaned forward and, as Crowley’s eyes focused on him, it gave the slightest jump and a tentative, hopeful pulse of precum.

_ Goodness _ , thought Aziraphale, feeling his heartbeat double in its rhythm.  _ Is this for me? _

The idea was intoxicating. Crowley was reacting to him - to his touches, and his glances, and his voice. He was eager, and he was clearly wanting, and somehow not at all bothered by Aziraphale’s outward appearance. Previous partners had been pleasantly surprised by his mouth, or his attentiveness but this - simply being aroused by how he looked? This was new. He felt embarrassingly drunk on it.

He felt embarrassingly drunk on Crowley. Gorgeous, absolutely stunning, and laying there, hard and leaking - for him. 

“Is this... alright?” Crowley asked, snapping Aziraphale out of his trance. He looked up and saw that the other was braced on his elbows now, his flush having spread down near to his chest. 

“More than.” Aziraphale pulled himself up further into the bed and slid his hand up the other’s thighs. Like a wave, goosebumps spread along the paths his fingers traced, but there was no protest, no retraction - merely another eager, lovely sound from Crowley and another twitch from his cock. “I’m simply admiring. You don’t mind?”

“Don’t have a mind to mind with,” Crowley admitted a bit breathlessly. “I think I left it in the uhhh-- in the lift probably.”

Fighting back an amused snort, Aziraphale leaned down, pressing his mouth to the soft thigh underneath him. Crowley moaned, and then moaned louder when Aziraphale moved further up, hand sliding to the base of his cock and giving an experimental squeeze. 

This, at least, was familiar. Aziraphale smiled against the shaft of the erection at his lips and then pulled it down and drew it into his mouth. The effect was immediate - Crowley threw his head back and keened, and as Aziraphale tongued down the underside of it, he swore louder, fingers grasping at the other’s shoulders and finding it absolutely impossible to find purchase with how hard they were shaking. Satisfied, Aziraphale pulled back again, a trail of precum dragged itself along his bottom lip. His fingers traced the sharp edge of the hip-bones at his disposal and he pressed them into the mattress, holding the man down to stop him from thrusting up. Somewhere on the bed above him, Crowley was making more noises - and although all of them seemed positive, they were also distinctly lacking breathing control. 

“If you keep doing that, I’m gonna cum,” he choked out.

Another warm burst of pleasure spread through Aziraphale. It was almost too much. For someone who was quite used to ignoring the tightness in his own trousers, to putting his own needs aside, he was getting ridiculously frustrated with how clothed he currently was. He wanted to be closer, wanted to get more hands on Crowley, wanted...

He couldn’t even decide. It was only one night - how much could he possibly get out of this? Was there ever going to be another time to taste the other in the back of his throat, or to hear him groaning into Aziraphale’s neck? He had to do this carefully, had to make sure he committed every moment to memory.

He slid upwards, pressing his mouth to Crowley’s stomach, then to his ribs, counting them with his lips. He reveled in the way the other shuddered underneath him, the way he strained against his weight - but just barely, just enough to verify that he was there, as if the pressure of it was comforting somehow. When he flattened his tongue against a nipple, Crowley moaned, and when he closed his teeth around the nub, the man arched off of the bed and into him, and Aziraphale eagerly snaked an arm under his shoulder blades and pulled them flush together. 

One of them may have said something - it may have been some passing swear, or some blasphemy, but it was hardly important. Crowley’s arms had wound their way around his neck and his prick was hot against the inside of Aziraphale’s thigh, probably leaving trails of wet there, and it was lovely, absolutely lovely, every moment of it. 

“... ’Ziraphale,” Crowley gasped against his mouth, and he came back to himself, recognizing, for the first time, that Crowley’s fingers had snuck into the back of his shirt. “Take it off,” he murmured.

There was a moment of hesitation. Then the need to feel the heat between them won out and he pulled back, dislodging himself from the other’s gangling half-embrace and shrugging his shirt off his shoulders. Through the process of struggling with buttons he glanced up only once, fell prey to Crowley’s intense gaze, and quickly evaded it, feeling himself burning up. 

It was fine, he tried to convince himself. Crowley wasn’t looking away. He had wanted this to happen.

As if hearing his internal monologue, Crowley reached towards him, and began to undo his trousers and that was--  _ Oh _ , that was quite a bit more than what Aziraphale was prepared for. He jerked his shirt down his elbows a little harsher than he’d meant to and pitched forward again to kiss Crowley, who immediately reciprocated with mirroring enthusiasm. His free hand wiggled down between them and a short minute later the trousers were flung to the far side of the room and they thrust up into each other, chest to chest now, with their erections sliding together messily in the minimal space between their stomachs. It was good, but he could already feel himself aching, eager for a different sort of pressure.

Feeling his heart stutter, Aziraphale pulled back, biting his bottom lip to hold it still in its quaking eagerness to return to where it had previously been. “Do you want to--” He didn’t know how to finish that sentence. He didn’t even know what he wanted. He still couldn’t decide what to ask for. 

“Whatever you want,” answered Crowley unhelpfully, breathing strained. He looked quite undone already.

For a brief second, Aziraphale’s lust-drunk mind jerked into worry “I’m crushing you,” he muttered and pulled back, almost not noticing Crowley’s distraught sound at the loss of their proximity. “We should-- I can lay back against the headboard and--” He tried to finish the thought, but Crowley, who had no evident time for this naked game of tetris, was suddenly against him again, writhing closer, crawling up into his lap, locking his legs eagerly around Aziraphale’s hips and pressing their mouths together. 

Aziraphale’s breath caught and his whole body flashed with heat, feeling, for the first time in a long time, above anything else -  _ wanted _ . Crowley  _ wanted _ him. It was enough to make him lose it again, make him forget everything else except the blissful weight of the other in his hold. He curled his hands behind Crowley’s thighs and yanked him up further, easy as anything, and Crowley moaned a low, sweet, surrendering note directly against his tongue, as if the action had been somewhat of an aphrodisiac. 

“Fuck, yeah,” he gasped when they broke apart. “Literally whatever you want, I swear--”

“Good lord,” Aziraphale said on a breathless chuckle, and then bit his lip, watching Crowley grind down into him, hips rolling in a motion that would have been far too smooth to be real to anyone who hadn’t spent the last five hours staring. Which Aziraphale had. 

They pressed together again and all at once, the worry plaguing his mind was burned out of him and replaced with the raging need to know, to touch, to feel. Crowley was there, and he was as alive as a flame, constantly in motion, constantly seeking, licking up against him, warming him to the very core. Aziraphale had barely let go of him for two seconds to allow him to twist away to the side somewhere before he was returning again and a very specific plastic sound clicked like a switch, interrupting their trance. 

Aziraphale smiled a soft, knowing smile against the collarbone he had just been sucking a bruise into. “Is that what I think it is?” he asked. 

“No,” retorted Crowley, unable to resist a good snark even in this position. “It’s hot sauce, I’m planning to experiment with burning sensations... Of course it’s what you think it is! It’s all up to your standard, trust me. Lubricant, 100% organic and safe and--” He paused, and there was a long stretch of silence.

Perhaps too long.

Feeling a cold creeping of uncertainty, Aziraphale pulled his head back, looking slightly up at the other, who was now squinting at the label of a matte black lotion bottle with a scowl. “What’s the matter?” he murmured. “We don’t have to--”

“Fuck.” Crowley hissed, having barely heard him. “It’s oil based. And all my rubbers are bloody latex, I didn’t--.” He scowled and rolled his eyes and Aziraphale realized, as he watched, that instead of disappointment, the only thing he felt was a burst of appreciation, an uncharacteristically pure drop of emotion in the ocean of lust they were both swimming in.

Interrupting Crowley’s groaning mid-stream, he took the bottle from him. “On the contrary, I’m glad you care enough to remember. And there are plenty of things we can do without involving rubbers.” 

“I wanted--” Crowley began, and found himself cut off by another mouth on his. When he pulled back, his train of thought seemed to have departed for the next station. 

“You said you liked being told what to do.”

Crowley’s throat jumped and his lips, shining from the attention they’d received, parted dazedly. The aforementioned train had perhaps hit him on the way out. “Y-yeah, I did-- I did say that...” he rasped unevenly. 

Upturning the bottle into his hand, Aziraphale watched the clear liquid roll across his palm, and then wrapped his fingers back around Crowley’s cock, dragging a few smooth strokes up and down until the man grabbed his shoulders to steady himself and began to make distinctly non-verbal noises once again. “Then I’m going to tell you,” he said, and smiled when Crowley whimpered, dropping his head onto his shoulder and breathing a curse against his skin. “Touch yourself nice and slow for me, darling. No cumming just yet, do you hear?”

Another whimper. 

Satisfied, Aziraphale glanced down, re-applied more of the oil and slowly snuck his hands around Crowley’s waist, gently bumping him further up into his lap and sliding his fingers between his parted thighs. 

“Oh god, yeah, please--” Crowley groaned, and cut himself off. 

Thankfully, words weren’t necessary to tell Aziraphale what he needed to know; the way Crowley clenched as he worked one slick finger up into him, the way his muscles tensed, then relaxed, and then pressed down, seeking more, deeper, until a new noise tore itself from his throat. 

“Here?” Aziraphale asked, pressing another finger inside slowly, and smiled when Crowley shuddered violently against him. “Yes, I think so.”

“I can’t-- I’m gonna--” Crowley moaned again and his hand sped up its pace, rocking against his cock eagerly to match Aziraphale’s steady thrusts.

“No,” Aziraphale breathed against his neck, his free hand tightening its grip on Crowley’s thigh just a bit. “No you won’t. Not yet.”

Crowley’s voice broke on a cry, but his fingers stilled. He rolled his hips again, meeting Aziraphale’s next thrust, only to immediately cry out and begin to shiver again. “Aziraphale, _ please-- _ ”

“You’re going to be good for me, won’t you?” Aziraphale whispered against his ear. “You’re going to take your hands off of yourself - yes, just like that.” He licked his lips, considered the way Crowley broke into him, a silent crack of pressure giving way to gravity. He watched with dazed amazement the way the shadows of the room framed the tremble of the shoulder that was up against his lips. Considered how much further he could take this. What he might be allowed. His mind buzzed with a silent, intoxicating thrill. 

“Put them behind your back.”

Crowley’s forehead dropped like a brick. “Bloody--” he hissed, but he was already doing it, already crossing his wrists at the curve of his lower back, and evidently no less hard for it.

_ Oh, love _ , thought Aziraphale fondly, and immediately smothered the words in the back of his throat, only allowing a soft hiss of satisfaction to slip through his teeth. It was too much - almost too much. If he was any more than just a bit tipsy, he would be hard pressed to believe that any of this was real. It felt like a dream, Crowley like this, up against him, gasping and straining in his hold. 

Fighting back the urge to thrust up, he tried to focus again, tried to bring himself back under control, to focus on the task at hand. 

“Can you come just from this?” Aziraphale’s fingers edged deeper, pushing the other open a little bit more with each thrust, grinding against the spot that made Crowley’s thighs seize up around Aziraphale’s hips. “I think you can.”

“Hnnngk,” replied Crowley in a tone two octaves higher than usual. Taking pity, Aziraphale moved his hand back to Crowley’s swollen cock, stroking slow and steady from the base up, teasing more eager whines from the other. 

This, alone, was enough. His own cock was unattended, trapped between their stomachs, but no pressure could compare to the warm, budding satisfaction of knowing the other was keeping himself as Aziraphale wanted, holding off on his own desires for Aziraphale’s sake - because Aziraphae had asked.

Crowley trusted him - here, in the dimly lit room with the satin sheets, with just the night behind them, he had given him the reins; had not even hesitated. Had not even argued. The knowledge of what he held in his lap, what he was being gifted, was not lost on Aziraphale. He felt endearment flooding him - stronger than any physical pleasure - and a reciprocating drive to make this worth it, make Crowley feel as good as he possibly could. Make the surrender worth its sacrifice. 

“You’re going to come for me,” said Aziraphale softly, pushing his fingers up in another, harsher thrust. Feeling the other’s body ache around him, slick and hot and inviting. “You’re going to come while I fuck you just like this, and I want to hear every noise, understand? I won’t stop until you’re silent.”

Another moan - smothered against his shoulder, bitten and barely legible. 

“That’s perfect, darling,” he praised soothingly. “You’ve been so good for me.”

This was, apparently, the limit. All at once, Crowley clenched around him and his hands broke from their invisible binds and grabbed at Aziraphale’s shoulders instead. His cry sounded closer to a sob and yet he pulled himself ever closer, collapsing onto Aziraphale’s steady frame, melting onto him, coiling inwards as his cock pulsed wetly in Aziraphale’s grip.

Aziraphale didn’t slow. He just kept at it, finger-fucking the other open until the gasping, desperate whines turned into a full-body wreck of ecstacy. 

Crowley’s voice pitched into a wail for a second and then died down, but, true to his orders, he kept crying out as the orgasm rushed through him in waves. It did not abate immediately, much to Aziraphale’s pleasure, and he had the opportunity to continue pushing deeper as Crowley muffled his cries into his neck. The sound glanced off of the tall walls of the bedroom, rustled the curtains and rolled back against them in the pliant darkness where Aziraphale closed his eyes and shivered. 

Finally, the haze of the climax retreated. Aziraphale slowed his hands, kissed gently against the other’s collarbone and withdrew his fingers, moving his other arm to help hold up the figure slumped across his lap. 

Crowley was breathing heavily. He tried to lift himself, but, failing that plan, decided to simply sag back into Aziraphale’s arms instead, resting their foreheads together. His face was deliciously red, voice like water over gravel when he finally spoke, just loudly enough for Aziraphale to hear. “...Think I just had a religious experience...”

“The good kind, I hope,” murmured Aziraphale.

“The kind that results in the longest orgasm of one’s life,” said Crowley, and his face cracked on a grin. “Ecstacy of St. Theresa style.”

A delighted laugh rushed out of Aziraphale. He tightened his hold again, unable to help himself, and then flushed when Crowley’s eyes slid south. He seemed to be gazing intently downwards and Aziraphale became suddenly aware that the other was studying his form. Clearing his throat, he put his hands over his stomach, trying to hide how self-conscious he was - how he was in general. He had honestly hoped to keep the nakedness to a minimum, given what he looked like.

One thing he was thankful for - Crowley didn’t seem repulsed. In fact, he wasn’t even judging. He was staring at Aziraphale as if... as if... it didn’t bother him at all. As if he was still turned on. 

“Bloody hell,” he said, and Aziraphale blushed harder. Before he could say something - divert it somehow - Crowley licked his lips, and it was all too clear what he was focusing on, specifically. The suspicions were confirmed not even two seconds later when, with shocking litheness, the man uncoiled himself from the tangle around Aziraphale’s waist and slid down the length of him instead, dragging his serpentine form until he settled at the apex of his crotch, staring directly up at the swollen, red head of his cock. 

“I’ve been a terrible host,” he breathed. 

Aziraphale’s heart, stomach and prick all jumped in unison. Abandoning previous worries about hiding his gut, the man grabbed for the bedsheets, seizing a fistfull of fabric and closing his eyes to hold himself steady. “Y-you don’t... You don’t have to.”

“I have to,” Crowley assured him. “Would never forgive myself if I didn’t,” he added quietly and Aziraphale had to look at him again, had to witness the moment the other’s kiss-bitten, flushed lips closed with reverence around the tip of his erection. 

It was only due to years of practiced repression that Aziraphale did not come right there and then. He certainly would have if he had even a sliver less self-control. But instead he held out - for a whole thirty seconds. It was absolute torment and absolute rapture, every moment of it. His thighs opened on their own, admitting the guest to lean his elbows on the bed between them, and he slid down a few inches from the headboard as Crowley pushed more and more of him into his mouth. More and more and - oh god, he was taking him to the hilt. Not even a hesitation, not even a hint of discomfort. 

“Oh, darling...!” 

Aziraphale didn’t mean to cry out, didn’t quite even know that he had done it. Crowley knew, though - and he pulled back just a bit, and looked up at the other with such utter devotion that it made his heart hurt to see it.

Then he closed his eyes again and then slid off of the cock with an obscene, wet pop and moved his mouth gently along the underside, tongue dragging pre-cum off the skin. “Aziraphale,” he breathed, the name like a prayer whispered into the base of his prick.

“Y-yes?”

“Hands. In my hair. Now. Please.”

It was hard to tell which one of them sounded more gone. It didn’t really matter, because as soon as Aziraphale reached forward and curled his fingers into the soft, red locks both of them were equally incapaciated. Crowley’s lips found the head of the cock again and Aziraphale, now holding him steady in a way he realized Crowley enjoyed, thrust up slowly into his mouth. Then less slowly. Then-- 

He didn’t quite remember, embarrassingly enough. He just knew that the orgasm rushed over him like a tide, stealing his breath, his vision, and what little remained of his self-control. He knew he had cried out Crowley’s name - and possibly called him darling again, which caused Crowley’s throat to constrict and made Aziraphale see stars.

A moment later - or maybe an hour, or maybe a year - he came back to himself and realized Crowley was clutching his thighs and sliding off of him, licking his lips and breathing harshly. He looked absolutely wrecked; reddened lips, pulled hair and sweat-gleaming skin - and it took every ounce of common sense to stop Aziraphale from rolling them both and going right back to the beginning and doing it all over again. 

Perhaps a similar thought passed through Crowley’s head, because he looked up again, and his features softened into a blissed out smile. “Holy shit,” he croaked. 

“Not too much?” asked Aziraphale breathlessly, reaching down to wipe at the man’s cheek with a remnant of concern. “Sorry, it’s-- It’s been a while since I...” 

“Nnnnno,” protested Crowley, lifting himself up into a cheap imitation of a sitting position and reaching over to press a finger to Aziraphale’s lips. He was swaying just a bit, still smiling. “No. Don’t. Don’t.... It was... perfect,” he murmured very softly. He leaned in and pressed his lips to Aziraphale’s - a chaste, gentle kiss - and then pulled back just as quickly, getting up off the bed on wobbly legs. “Gonna... Jus’... Go to the bathroom. And wash up. Gimme a sec...”

He disappeared into a door that must have been the bathroom in a more or less effective manner (though his knees and hips seemed to have less in common than usual, which was a miracle all on its own). Aziraphale watched him go, basking in the afterglow, and did not remember to stop smiling until a whole four minutes later, when Crowley returned. He was a bit more wet, still very naked, and even more sleepy. 

“Got you a towel,” he said, depositing the fluffy thing into Aziraphale’s hands. “Bathroom’s through there... You can just use whatever and... make yourself at home.”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said. He didn’t know what else to say, so he didn’t - just went into the bathroom and tried to pretend that this was normal. 

And really, who was to say that it wasn’t? Now that the buzz of the alcohol had worn off, now that the lull of the romantic evening had trickled down to the drain, now that the thunderstorm of lust had passed and become barely a drizzle in his mind, he was having much more lucid thoughts about the entire ordeal. 

Namely - having sex with someone he had technically met that day. 

Of course, he’d had a bit of that in his younger years. He’d had partners - they had casual sex and then went their seperate ways.

But this was... different. 

Somehow, it was. He couldn’t quite explain why. Maybe it was the fact that Crowley was a friend instead of just a stranger. Maybe it was the fact that Crowley had actually liked him enough to invite him back. Maybe it was the fact that Crowley had looked up at him, utterly wrecked and blushing, and had still smiled like he was the sun for some reason. 

Surely something was responsible for the alien feeling in the pit of his chest which was simultaneously uncomfortably huge and fragile. He didn’t want to examine it, and even if he did, he felt that he would probably not have the correct qualifications to assess it. Novelty was not his strong suit. 

Speaking of novelty, the bathroom was the height of it. He had not really got a good look at the apartment when they’d fallen through the door snogging each other’s faces off (priorities, you understand) but now that he was in a well-lit space, the blurred details were beginning to piece themselves together. 

Everything was modern, ultra-sleek with minimal detail. The counter was black marble, the sink was an ergonomic shape dipping into the wall, and the soaps and various skincare products were all lined up in a square crevice built directly into the wall-sized mirror. He spared himself one glance in it, decided to avoid doing it in the future, and instead looked for the shower. 

It was there, sure enough - if it  _ was _ , indeed, a shower. It seemed to be just a section of the tiled floor blocked off by glass, but there were knobs and things in the wall which looked like they might have been designed for a Star Trek TV set. 

Fiddling with them took him a while, which meant the shower took much longer than he anticipated. He was not surprised, therefore, to find Crowley dead asleep by the time he returned. 

The room was mostly dark again - and the only illumination was the light from the bathroom sneaking up behind him and overtaking his feet, rushing towards the edge of the bed in a strip of soft gold that climbed over the rumpled silk sheets. Somewhere under the covers was Crowley, breathing softly. There was a tall window on the wall opposite which, when Aziraphale peeked behind the thick, black curtain, revealed a very expensive view of London. He watched for a moment and then pulled away, giving the bed another glance before sneaking out of the room. 

A part of him felt strange about snooping, but another, stronger part which knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep anyway and besides, he needed a glass of water. The kitchen couldn’t have been far, so he made it back down the hall, one hand on the matte wall, fingers trailing idly until it came to a corner and the floorplan unfurled into an open-style living space. Again, here were tall windows, and by the light coming from behind them he could make out silhouettes of an angular sofa, a very sleek TV, and a few sparse bookshelves. The bookshelves drew his attention, but he quickly abandoned the endeavor due to lack of a lightswitch and veered left instead, to where a bar counter was cutting him off from the kitchen cabinets. 

From where he was standing he could catch the corner of another room further down the hall - a wider, doorless space drenched in moonlight and heavily slashed through with organic shadows. It took him a few seconds to realize they must have been the plants Crowley mentioned raising - it looked like they were huge, and numerous. He wanted to go in, but the idea of those monstrous leaves looming over him was somewhat spooky in the middle of the night so instead he turned back to the kitchen sink.

The fight with the tap took less time than he had feared, and very quickly he had a glass full of what he’d been after - albeit a wine glass. He drank it slowly, staring into the empty living room and wondering if Crowley had wine somewhere in the cabinets. If it was good wine. 

Maybe they could share it one day. Maybe he could recline on that uncomfortable-looking couch and discuss romantic and debaucherous poetry. Crowley could tell him about the plants he kept. They could talk about their collaborations, their new projects, trade ideas and then at the end of the night they could...

No, he was getting ahead of himself. They had sex - that was all. It didn’t have to mean anything. They hadn’t talked about it at all - Crowley had merely invited him over because he felt... obligated to. That was what he’d said, hadn’t he? He hated owing people favors. 

And he had pressed his lips to Aziraphale’s and unlocked his mouth with a turn, like a key, and it had been... wonderful. Each part of it. He couldn’t even think about it without becoming flustered again. 

He decided to save the thinking for later. He was drunk, and besides, they could discuss it awkwardly tomorrow. Maybe over breakfast. 

He made his way back to the bedroom. Crowley had scooted to the left, leaving the right side of the bed open for him. Aziraphale pulled back the covers and slipped in, and when the other rolled over and pressed up against him like a reptile seeking a heat source, the feeling of butterflies in his stomach returned again. 

_ Morning, I’ll deal with it in the morning _ , he thought to himself stubbornly. 

And in that moment, for the first time in a long time, he lay aside his worries, put his arm around Crowley and allowed himself to just  _ be _ . 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> Next chapter will be up next week as usual!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale gets a phonecall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting this a little bit early because I want to get to the meat of the story sooner. This will bring us up to date to the actual plotline and explain away a lot of your questions (I hope.)

* * *

The idyllic morning - the awkward, shy breakfast, the discussion of what had happened last night - never came.

Instead, there was a phone call at 6:32AM, when it was still dark outside, and Aziraphale had to roll out of bed and grope around on the floor for his flip-phone. 

“Aziraphale. It’s Gabriel. Father died last night.” 

He listened in stunned silence as the man on the other end of the line, whose voice he hadn’t heard for years, relayed the details of the upcoming funeral. There were discussions of business, of preparations. Some sort of will. A ceremony. All this was relayed in a single monologue which seemed to exist under the correct assumption that it would not be interrupted even once. The underlying meaning was clear - Aziraphale was expected to come back. 

“Requiem Mass is in three days. Afterwards, we’ll have a reception. We were hoping you’d write something. You always did have a way with words.”

A lump had taken a permanent residence in Aziraphale’s throat. It had nothing to do with grief, much as he tried to feel it for propriety’s sake. “I--”

“We can discuss the details when you arrive. I have to go now, there are preparations.” 

And then the line went dead.

He sat still for a long time, there on the edge of the bed, staring blankly at the wall. Finally, the bedsheets stirred and a weight scooted up the mattress behind him. A hand slid up his back - warm, comforting. He fought the urge to flinch from it. 

“Something happen?” Crowley asked, voice sticky with sleep. “Who was that?”

“It was...” Aziraphale opened his mouth and closed it again uselessly, organizing files into folders over and over again inside his head, trying to find some semblance of logic in the whirlwind of empty emotions that did not belong to the death of a parental figure. Sadness - because it felt like he  _ had _ lost something, though he couldn’t for the life of his think what. Fear - because he realized he was apparently ‘un-excommunicated’. Relief - because at least they didn’t completely hate him. Just when he’d got over it, too. Horrible timing, really. 

“My father died,” he said. 

Crowley was silent and yet, somehow, Aziraphale could hear the frown.

He took a deep breath to steady himself. It didn’t work. “It was-- Gabriel. One of my relatives. They want me to come back to the estate. To help prepare for the funeral.”

“I thought you cut contact with your family,” Crowley said quietly.

“I did.” Even to himself, Aziraphale’s voice sounded very small. The truth was more complex. It was kind of Crowley to put the control into his hands, as if he’d been the one to make the choice. Made him feel less weak, if even for a moment.

“Are you going to go?” 

Aziraphale swallowed, or tried to. He got halfway through, realized his eyes were stinging, and redirected his efforts to blinking very hard instead. “I suppose I-- Yes, I ought to.” 

He stood up. Reached for the place on the chair, where his clothes lay folded and began to dress himself with shaking hands. 

“I can drive you,” Crowley said. 

Aziraphale refused to look at him. “No, no, don’t be ridiculous. It’s up north, it’ll take hours. I’ll... maybe the airport. Yes.” He buttoned himself up, leaned down to grab his tie and then his socks, and then waistcoat. Things he’d discarded last night, pieces of armor he’d shed without a second thought as they stepped into the bedroom, entangled in each other. Putting them back on again, one by one, seemed to make each of his limbs heavier. He clutched his coat in his arms, gathered pieces of himself from the wreck-scattered corners of his mind and headed for the door, catching his hand on the corner of it and hesitating for just a second. 

He wanted to look back. Instead he just stared out silently into the hallway. 

“You don’t have to do this,” said Crowley from the bed. “They don’t deserve it, after what they did to you.”

Aziraphale didn’t reply. He squeezed the doorframe so hard he thought the wood might splinter, and then let go and pushed away.

“Thank you,” he said, and left.

* * *

Father was a loose term. 

Fatherhood was an even looser state of being for the individual involved. Aziraphale’s biological parents had died in a traffic accident when he was a few months old, and he felt as connected to them or the idea of them as he did to the concept of having an appendix. When questioned, he would admit that reasonably, at some point, they would have to have existed. But he didn't miss them and their function in his life could largely be summarized by their removal from it. 

He had been raised in the church. Well - it was more like a family, or a community; an estate that had roots in the clergy going back several decades, and he, by some distant blood association, was one of the heirs. There were many like him - although he was certainly nothing like them. Old blood, old money, and old religion were the guiding pillars of each movement of the ancient lineage of the household. He had been brought up by stuffy tutors and distant nannies and kind priests, and - yes, in a way, he supposed Father did also have a hand in his upbringing. 

Then again, Father had a hand in everything. That was rather the point of Old Money. 

Of course, the hand itself had not really done anything through the years. At first it was just an unreachable object - a thing Aziraphale spied in mass when he was young enough to have to look up at it and wonder if he might hold it. Eventually it was a thing he could see through the keyhole of the East Wing study, resting on the wooden desk, scribbling away at some contracts. 

Through the years it became less of something he actively saw, but rather something he felt in spirit. It was on his back, urging him on in his religious studies. It was on his shoulder, gripping him with a chokehold when he first began to have doubts. And then, it picked up a metaphorical sword and held it over his neck, making a quiet, solemn sort of threat. 

It had made good on the threat. 

* * *

Aziraphale arrived in the afternoon. He was still dressed in the clothes he’d put on that morning, still smelled of Crowley’s body wash, still felt peppered with the red teeth marks hidden safely underneath his button-up. And much as he wished he could revel in the feeling and not let his old thinking get to him, he could not help feeling the fingerprints on his skin burn like taint as he set foot in the old house for the first time in over seven years. 

The floor was polished white. The curtains were pristine, cream-colored. The staircase leading up to the second floor landing was a shining ivory. He was a splatter, a stain on its perfectly curated canvas, as he had always been. 

“Aziraphale!” a voice called from the top of the stairs. 

He looked up, spotting Gabriel. Much like the house, the man had somehow remained unchanged since the last time they’d met - many years ago. His face was sculpted into a picturesque smile, as if he was part of the decorum. 

How did they even know about him? How did they get his number? He had thought they’d stricken him from the records, burned every bridge. He thought he was as good as dead to them since he’d been forcibly removed from the estate.

Questions, endless questions burned on his tongue as he gazed up at the man descending to meet him with an easygoing, bouncing gate. He voiced none of them. 

“We’re so glad you could make it,” Gabriel said. “We have a lot to catch up on.”

Aziraphale swallowed back his questions. 

He had to trust that the answers would be revealed to him in due time. 

For now the situation seemed, for lack of a better word, ineffable. 

* * *

“Feel better?” Gabriel asked as soon as Aziraphale stepped into the study. “I am awfully sorry for summoning you on such short notice. I had no idea book dealing was such a rough business,” Gabriel admitted, and it was difficult to tell whether his voice was mocking or teasing. Perhaps it was trying for one and failing into the other. “Having to sleep in hotels just to close a deal? Sounds absolutely dreadful if you ask me...”

“Yes, thank you.” Aziraphale said automatically, tugging up his collar once again. He wasn’t sure how good Gabriel was at detecting lies, but he knew he didn’t have a problem with his sight, and Crowley had left a few visible marks - he had noticed them in the bathroom mirror and felt his stomach flip at the memory of the mouth that left them there. “And thank you for the change of clothes. And letting me use the shower.”

“It’s technically your shower as much as it is mine,” Gabriel replied, and reached over to clap him on the shoulder. The contact startled them both and they leaned away in an uncomfortable silence. 

“I’m afraid I have to disagree,” Aziraphale said finally, not looking up. “You mustn’t think that you have to be kind to me. I know full well what my standing is in this family.”

“Your standing is fine.” 

Another silence. This one more stunned than uncomfortable. 

“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Aziraphale admitted. 

Clasping his hands together, the other man began to pace, slowly, deliberately, towards the old wooden desk by the window. “Aziraphale, listen. What happened with Father and his decision to... remove you from the house... you have to understand, times change. He did what he felt was best for us at the time but the past is in the past. And like it or not, his passing harkens a new era.”

A hurricane of emotions was brewing inside Aziraphale’s chest, its long, tendril arms spreading to the rest of his limbs, making him feel light and full of electricity. He could hear thunder pounding in his ears. His head, the only thing miraculously, terrifyingly calm, was the eye of the storm. “Gabriel,” he said, shocked by how level his own voice sounded. “I’m not sure what, exactly, you mean by all this, but nothing  _ has _ changed. I’m still gay.”

Gabriel winced visibly but then seemed to steel himself and turned to look at Aziraphale. “That’s much less of an issue these days.”

Aziraphale lifted his eyebrows and said nothing.

“What I mean is, I’ve had a talk with the others,” Gabriel explained, fluttering his hand in a vague gesture. “Michael, Uriel, Sandalphon, the rest. And they all agreed that... there’s no reason you shouldn’t be allowed to come back.” He paused, waiting a beat for a groveling, thankful reply and, when he got none, continued onward: “Look, I’ll be honest with you - Father’s left things in a bit of a mess. And we are doing our best to clean it up and take the machine back to the shop, so to speak. This is a part of it. Aziraphale, you are, and always have been, an asset to this family.”

“An asset,” echoed Aziraphale numbly, feeling his lips purse and his eyebrows make a bid for the heavens. 

“Your translation work was always unmatched, your extensive background in linguistics, your knowledge of literature-- and your writing! Those are the things people should be judging you by! Not whoever it is you’re... er... attracted to. Frankly, we couldn’t care less about that.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale fought back a flurry of conflicting emotions and biting retorts. “Well, that’s very kind of you but--”

“The point is,” interrupted Gabriel. “We’re a family. And family should stick together. We’re aware of how hard things have been for you. And we want to mend the bridges Father burned. I’m sure he did his best under the circumstances but now that chapter is behind us. We’re going to build it anew. We’re going to do better.”

Aziraphale struggled for something to say that wasn’t a swear. 

“So.” Gabriel beamed up another smile. “About that reception speech.”

* * *

It was a long funeral mass. 

Of course, they were all long, as per tradition, but Aziraphale felt it even more acutely that day than any other. The cut of his suit was particularly stifling. Perhaps it was unavoidable - Gabriel had it delivered to him at a quick turnaround. The measurements must have been slightly off. 

But no, the suit was the least of his worries. He was trapped in this church as much as he was in the suit. He was trapped in his role as much as he was in the church. 

The swirling smog of scents that accosted him from all sides - incense, human sweat, old wood. The stiff shoulders lining the pews stretching out before him. He’d chosen one of the seats closer to the aisle, always one foot out the door, always ready to bolt. It was odd - maybe it was the light filtering in from the chancel windows, or maybe it was the nostalgia, but the entire thing had an odd sepia quality to it. Was he in the past, or the present? He had known this church, walked these halls. His fingers remembered the feeling of the ridges on the altar. He could close his eyes and trace the outline of the scorch mark that stained the floor on the left transept, where one of the choir boys - Mark? Wasn’t it Mark? - had dropped a candle once. 

From the front, the priest’s voice echoed softly through the pews. Aziraphale could have pretended to be listening to the reading, but he didn’t bother. He knew the lines. He knew the written word. He knew its interpretations. What he didn’t know was what he was doing here.

Old things. Rebirth. Atonement. 

He stared silently down at his clasped hands, worrying his right thumb over the knuckle of his left hand over and over and over again in gentle spirals. He looked, unseeing, at his knees and pictured skin beneath his hands that was not his own. He braided his fingers into each other and imagined hair, dark red, slightly curled. He tightened his grip into a fist and thought he could almost hear the softest, melodic groan lacing through the monotony of the verse. His lips stung where he could still recall Crowley kissing him, openmouthed and openhearted and eager and wanting, fully surrendering to him right there, on the bed, no questions asked. 

Utter devotion. Trust. Control - eagerly given up, offered to him like a gift. 

A new beginning. 

He flinched when the people began to stir around him and blinked out of his daze. 

Right, the Readings were over. 

Holy Communion was next. 

He sighed, and tried to forget the taste of skin against his tongue. 

* * *

There was a message from Crowley: 

_ You okay? _

He was trying to think of an answer. 

What was defined as ‘okay’? What was the standard against which he could measure it? What sort of average amount of anxiety and stress and vomit-inducing nausea was permitted before the scales tipped into the negative? How much did a standard person suffer all while gritting their teeth into a grin and choking out insistently ‘ _ I’m fine, it’s fine, I’m fine _ ’?

How much was Aziraphale allowed to not be okay?

He was in a bed. In a room. Not his room - though it technically used to be. And then for a while it wasn’t. And now, apparently, it was. Again. 

He was warm. He had food and shelter. He had money. 

He had.... Money. The will - he was in the will. He had inheritance. He had a spot at the table. A space in the family. A part in the estate.

How was any of it supposed to be  _ not _ okay? If he wasn’t able to define his situation as ‘okay’, then what could he define as ‘okay’? How much would it take? 

Were any of them really okay?

Was Crowley ‘okay’?

Was he in bed? Was he awake? Was he out on the town, finding someone else to spend the night with? Had he already forgotten about Aziraphale?

He stared at the phone for a long time, thinking the way the chat window would look reflected back on Crowley’s ultra-modern, sleek black square of a screen. 

_ Read 3:49AM _

* * *

“This really is good,” said Gabriel, smacking the stack of paper with the back of his hand demonstratively. “I mean, I work in publishing, and I gotta tell you, it’s got potential. Not like that dastardly indecent romantic fiction nonsense they’re putting out these days. You write a lot of stuff like this?”

Aziraphale changed his full-body wince into a shrug at the last second. “Just... something I’ve been doing in my free time. When I’m not managing the bookshop.”

“I see,” Gabriel said. He glanced up and pushed the cup of coffee towards Aziraphale on the counter. “Drink! You look like death warmed over. Didn’t get any shut-eye last night?”

“I’m afraid I have trouble sleeping. Always have,” said Aziraphale, dragging the cup to his side and picking it up, more so for the comfort of the weight in his hands than for the smell or taste of the black brew. He rarely had coffee, but it didn’t feel right to put up a fuss about preferences. 

“I’ll tell you what,” said Gabriel. “Let me run it past some people. I think I can use this.”

The coffee touched his lips and warmed them, but went no further. “Mm,” he voiced, hoping that it sounded neutral. 

“Some editing will be in order, of course.” Gabriel grinned broadly. “But if you’re interested... I think we can take this up with the magazine Michael runs. They’d love you there.” He paused to pick up his own thermos, took a gulp, grimaced, and then slapped the stack of papers on the counter. “You got any more like this?”

“Oh, sure,” said Aziraphale timidly. “But it’s... it’s nothing much, really. You don’t have to feel obligated to read it just because--”

“Nonsense!” boomed Gabriel. “That’s what family is for!” 

* * *

If he had to look back on the specifics of what happened after that, Aziraphale would say that it took years. Realistically it hadn’t - but it did take years off of his life. It certainly felt like years from the amount of rapid-fire events that cascaded down the line like a chain of dominoes, all falling one after another in rapid succession. 

When had Gabriel become his editor? He didn’t know. When had his short stories began to be published in the catholic periodical some distant relatives owned? He had no idea. When had they demanded a full-length book from him? Not a clue. 

But regardless of the fact that he could hardly keep track of it, it had, in fact, happened. It happened so much and so fast that often Aziraphale would lock himself up in the shop and not open it for a whole week, instead choosing to sit on the sofa with paper strewn among him and alternate between drinking and rewriting, and drinking, and editing, and rewriting, and writing and--

Before he knew it, six months had passed. 

* * *

The idea of seeing Crowley again never disappeared from his mind. 

Not truly ever, not even for a day. He held the thought of him in the back of his head when he woke up, when he was shelving books, when he was penning dialogue. Suppressing it, pushing it aside became second nature to breathing.

On particularly dark nights he would shut himself up in his back room and think about calling. He would think about hearing the other’s voice on the other end of the line when he picked up the phone, about seeing him on the streets on accident and their eyes meeting and something wonderful and magical happening, and all the barriers between them falling away. 

But contradicting these impossible daydreams, in reality he had actually made it very difficult for any of these things to come to fruition. For one thing he rarely went outside, busy as he was with new writing ventures. For another, he had barely had the courage to answer any of Crowley’s messages save for a few short, very meek responses.

He was simultaneously terrified that the other hated him already and conscious of the fact that if he didn’t, surely this style of communication would be more than sufficient to do the job. And sure enough, as winter turned into spring Crowley’s emails became more and more sparse, and Aziraphale’s refusal to pick up the ringing phone, paralyzed as he was with his own indecision, only served to ascertain his isolation. 

It was late April when it finally happened. He was returning home from a trip to the supermarket with a bag full of groceries, and he had just hip-checked his way through the door. The sign on the front was set the same as it had been for the past several weeks - CLOSED - and he didn’t even bother locking anything as he shuffled into the kitchen to exchange his rotten avocados for some fresh ones, vehemently promising them they would not be meeting the same fate. 

And then the bell above the door chimed. 

He rushed back downstairs, horrified at the thought of having to actually drive customers away for the first time in ages (he was rather out of practice - in both aspects of human interaction and bookshop anti-purchase bullying) and instead felt his feet freeze to the floor at the sight of a shock of red hair and sunglasses. 

Crowley stood there for a few moments, staring back at him, and then let go to the door, making the bell chime again as it shut. 

“Hey,” he said. His voice sounded strange, nasal. Like maybe he had a cold.

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, who suddenly sounded very nasal himself. His throat was closing and the train of all possible speech about to depart to the next station.

“Mind if I come in?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale managed to choke out. 

Crowley’s eyebrows hid behind his glasses. “Yes... you do mind?” 

“No,” corrected Aziraphale hurriedly, and stepped closer without thinking. Crowley mirrored him and he seemed to be reaching out and then Aziraphale was reaching as well, and his face lit up and there was only a few feet between them suddenly and  _ oh, oh no _ . 

There were too many details to consider before they could allow this to happen. He knew enough to guess where this was going. He knew about Newtonian Laws. An object in motion will remain in motion - unless it’s acted upon by a greater force.

“H-how about a walk?” Aziraphale exclaimed, rocking back on his heels and forcing himself to look away abruptly. “I was actually thinking of heading to St. James to feed the ducks, just bought some bread and--If you’d like to join me, I know we have a lot to catch up on!” 

All at once, something had shifted. It was like the whole planet had tilted imperceptibly on its axis. Truth be told, Aziraphale had wanted nothing more than to keep going towards certain collision, but they missed each other by inches, two celestial objects brushing their gravitational pools and arching away again in a slingshot effect Crowley had once described to him over an astronomical spiel during a very drunken 4-hour phone lecture on theoretical interstellar travel. 

The distance between them grew. The universe was, after all, expanding. There was no way to tell if they were going to stay in each other’s orbit or if the repelling force had been too great to create a proper loop. 

Crowley’s face fell a bit, but then he seemed to consider something and untensed. “Right,” he said slowly, nodding. “Sure. Whatever you want.”

“Oh good,” Aziraphale choked out cheerfully. 

“Yeah, good,” agreed Crowley slowly. 

“Excellent.”

“Great.”

It wasn’t, by any stretch of the word, but it was a start.

* * *

“I saw you got published.”

Aziraphale tugged off a piece of bread, pressing the pads of his fingers around the spongy surface, forcing it into a harder shape. “Oh, yes,” he said lightly, looking down. “I suppose that did happen. Gabriel pulled a few strings and--”

“One of your cousins?”

“Mmhmm.”

They were quiet for a while, standing there, side by side. The stream murmured somewhere beneath them. Birds chattered in the canopy of trees just across the way, providing a pleasant filling of white noise to distract from the suddenly frequent awkward silences that peppered the conversation. 

“How’s things with them?” asked Crowley again.

“Better,” allowed Aziraphale. He pressed the bread into a ball and dug his nails into the crust. “Strangely enough,” he added. “Now that my father is gone they seem to have no issue with my little...  _ problem _ .”

He could almost feel Crowley turning his head to look at him, but did not allow himself to move and meet his gaze. There was no point - all he would see is the judgemental dark glass of Crowley’s lenses. He didn’t want to see his own insecurities reflected back at him.

He cleared his throat. “Either way, they said they’d work things out with the lawyers. The will is-- It’s rather flexible to interpretation. They want to work out an agreement. Give me a portion.”

Crowley hummed. “Lotta money, is it?” he asked.

“Oh, it’s not about the money,” Aziraphale said. He looked across the water, at the ducks waiting there, and tossed the smushed piece of bread out to them. They seemed to give it judging looks but ate it all the same. (He sympathized.) “It’s... Well, you might think me rather silly, but it’s the library I’m really after. Before I was ‘exiled’ I had been entrusted quite the collection that my father kept. I was meant to inherit it, you see, but the whole thing that followed meant I wasn’t able to take much of it with me. Aside from what I have in the shop but-- that’s actually merely a fraction.” He began to tear off another piece of bread. “I was hoping to persuade Gabriel to entrust it to me.”

“And did he agree?”

“He did,” admitted Aziraphale. “Albeit, on some... conditions.”

Beside him, Crowley sucked in a breath through his teeth which sounded like a hiss. “They want you to come back to the church?”

Shocking himself, Aziraphale gave a barking laugh. “Goodness, no. I’m not going to do that, even if they want me to,” he said. A glance to the side - Crowley’s shoulders were drooping in relief. He looked back at the water. “It’s about the publishing agency Gabriel owns. He said they like my work. Wants me to continue sending them stories.”

Crowley snorted beside him. “And? You gonna do it?” 

Aziraphale threw the bread again. A duck caught it in midair, bobbing its long neck to choke the morsel down while the others stared in jealousy. “Yes, I think I will. It’s been quite busy with how much they’re wanting me to do, but I have had a few things on the backburner for years now. Besides, it seems to be a reasonable arrangement.”

He could hear another shrug in Crowley’s tone of voice, cresting in his gentle tenor. “Guess I can see why you would. Good for you. They’re lucky to have you.”

A warm burst of gratitude flared to life in Aziraphale’s chest. “Thank you,” he said. “But I’m not sure how suited I really am, in the long run. They mostly want me for my spiritual work, you see, and it’s been a long time since I’ve written anything in that field. In fact, the things I’m sending them now are all about a decade old, from the time I was doing some soul-searching. I’m reworking it, of course, to be a bit more... ‘palatable’ to the intended audience.”

“Which is?”

“Mostly older folk looking to rekindle their faith.”

“So you’re making it more straight,” said Crowley with a knowing snort. 

“That too,” said Aziraphale. He sighed wistfully. “Ah well. It’s not as if it matters. It’s far less personal to me now. I’m just glad to put it to some use. It wasn’t doing anyone any good collecting dust on my hard-drive.” 

Crowley sniffed again and reached over to grab some bread from Aziraphale. For a moment, the hand brushed his jacket and even that simple amount of contact sent his heart into a fluttering frenzy. But Crowley didn’t seem to notice - he just leaned onto the railing and began to flick tiny pieces of crust into the water. “I say you milk it for all it’s worth. Even if it’s not money you’re after, you might as well get your fair share. To tell the truth, I’ve been working with Beez - you know, that one asshole I mentioned? - more these past few months. That’s why I didn’t email as much - sorry about that by the way - I’ve just been damn busy. They want me to do a whole bloody book. A collection of short stories.”

Aziraphale blinked, and then smiled. “Oh, that’s wonderful!” Something about the fact that Crowley didn’t hold him responsible for the lack of contact made him breathe a little easier. “Actually I’m putting together a book for Gabriel as well.”

“Small world,” said Crowley. He flicked some more bread toward - or maybe at? - the ducks and then spun around and cocked a grin directly at Aziraphale. “Works out perfectly, doesn’t it? We can help each other out. Like the good old days.”

It was difficult to resume brain function under direct assault of Crowley’s beaming expression, but Aziraphale tried his best. “Sorry, what?” 

“I mean.” Crowley shrugged. His LED-powered smile grew less intense and he tilted his head away, to the sky, as if searching for some sort of inspiration there. “You know. If you need me to fill out some fluff for you. And I might ask you for some help with my raunchy scenes--”

The realization dawned on him all at once.

“No!” protested Aziraphale immediately. “Absolutely not!”

Crowley looked back at him. In the reflection of his sunglasses, a tiny Aziraphale was fuming back at himself. 

“You cannot possibly think--”

“Why not?” interrupted Crowley, pushing away from the railing and facing the other fully now. His hands had gone into his pockets as much as they could - which wasn’t much - and it made his shoulders ride up and his elbows flare, like he was a cobra. “We’ve done well with collaborations up until now.”

“That was for  _ fanfiction _ !” protested Aziraphale, and then looked around nervously and lowered his voice. “Crowley, this is serious! There are laws...! This is the real world!”

“Doesn’t change much if you ask me.”

“That’s precisely why I didn’t ask,” Aziraphale said. Ignoring the insulted way Crowley rocked back on his heels, he kept going: “Listen, you might be comfortable skirting the law, but this could have repercussions for both of us!”

“Writers collaborate all the time!” protested Crowley. “What’s wrong with that?”

“What’s wrong with it is-- It’s...” Aziraphale closed his eyes, searched for the words. “Crowley, you’re already famous! And famous for-- You know what. People know your name. Can you imagine what Gabriel would say if he knew?!”

“He doesn’t have to know!” Crowley spread his arms wide. “We’ll do it in secret, just like we’ve been doing--”

“No,” snapped Aziraphale and looked around again for good measure. “I cannot believe you would even suggest... No.”

“But--”

“It could end in disaster for both of us!”

“Aziraphale--”

“Absolutely not!” Crumpling the bag of bread in his hands, Aziraphale turned on his heel, cutting himself off from the desperate expression he was directly in the path of. He had hoped that not looking at Crowley would make it easier, but he could practically feel the other staring at his back, and it only made him want to turn around.

Taking a deep breath, he steeled his shoulders. “I have a story to finish. Good day!” 

From beside him, Crowley managed to combine a groan and growl into a single, utterly frustrated noise shoved out the back of his throat: “Fine, have fun brewing your Chicken Soup For the Soul!”

It shouldn’t have been so difficult to walk away, but it was. He reckoned it was going to be the most difficult thing he would have to do all month. 

He was wrong, of course.

* * *

The phone rang merely two days later. This time Aziraphale picked up - because he was stupid, and hopeful, and far more lonely than he was ready to admit. 

“Look,” Crowley said before he’d even managed to squeeze ‘A.Z. Fell’s’ past his teeth, “I know we left off on the wrong note... Just hear me out.”

Aziraphale took a deep breath, the old telephone receiver rattling in his hands from nervousness. The apology he’d lodged behind his cheek, the one he’d been gnawing this entire time like a particularly determined and absolutely incapable nutcracker, rolled into the back of his throat instead and stuck there.

Crowley took his silence as a good sign. “I’m not looking for a collaboration. Forget that idea. Pretend it never happened. I just need someone to proofread my stuff before I send it to Beez. They chewed me out last time as is. You-- you’ve always been better with this stuff. Just look over it for me. Alright? Just want your professional opinion.”

Aziraphale swallowed thickly.  _ You’re so stubborn _ , he thought to himself with utter fondness.  _ Thank God you called. I wanted you to call. _

But he said none of it. 

“Aziraphale?” said Crowley. His voice seemed to be infused with just the gentlest vibrato, as if he was bracing for a rejection. 

“Yes,” Aziraphale blurted out quickly. “Yes, of course. I’m-- I’m sorry, I just.” He took another breath and let it out to steady himself. Gripped the desk and closed his eyes, willing his tone to become more casual. “If it’s just a beta-- I mean, a proof-read you need, of course, I’ll do it. Send it over.”

Crowley’s breath crackled over the line. Was it relieved? Annoyed? It was difficult to tell. “Right,” he said, and at least the tremor from before was gone. “Thanks. Much appreciated.”

“Anytime.”

Standing there in the bookshop, blanketed with dim yellow lights and blocked in by towering bookshelves, Aziraphale felt as though he could close his eyes and imagine the other next to him. Close - close enough to feel Crowley’s breath on his neck. He twisted the phone cord around his fingers - once... twice... winding it into a steely grip, picturing Crowley’s half-coils cascading over his shoulders, just like they had in the photo. 

He opened his eyes and he was back at the shop. No Crowley. 

“Well,” said the Crowley that wasn’t there. “I guess I’ll. See you around then.”

“Yes,” came the reply, though he didn’t even recall thinking of making it. “Certainly.”

A few more noises of relative contentment crawled through the receiver into his ear, and then the man mumbled something to the effect of ‘ciao’ and hung up. 

They still hadn’t talked about that night. Not even once. Hadn’t even hinted at it. 

Had it even happened? He was sure it had. But now it felt so far off, buried beneath unpleasant memories of Gabriel and the family estate that he wondered for a moment if it had merely been a dream. 

* * *

He had thought that the first time he held the book in his hands, he would feel proud. Excited. Maybe nervous, sure. But there was something of a cold dread that accosted him first. He felt like he was holding a brick.

“What do you think?” asked Gabriel, clapping him on the back again. Aziraphale didn’t flinch away this time. Over the past ten months he’d got more or less used to it. Had developed an instinct, learned to steel himself when the other was coming close. 

“Looks... good. Tip-top,” he said, flipping through. It really  _ did _ look very professional. Hardcover - the jacket was a matte navy blue, with soft raised letters in gold across the front. He paused on the inside flap, glancing at a photo and recognizing with a start that it was - him. 

“Where’s this from...?” he asked, turning wide eyes on his cousin, who waved him off as if it wasn’t important.

“Oh, just something I had on file. Had them put it in so the readers can feel like they have a better connection to you.”

“This is practically ten years old!” protested Aziraphale, glancing back down. “And I’m in my vestment. People will get the wrong idea--”

“No, Aziraphale, people will get the  _ right _ idea.” Gabriel squeezed his shoulder in a way that was just a bit too tight. “Listen, I know we didn’t talk about this, but you do realize that as you get more and more popular, you’ll need to think about your image. Now, I’m not suggesting we lie, but the fact of the matter is - this will help sales! People want to read books by someone they trust! And I’m not saying I want you to change your attire but this...” He glanced down at the well-worn waistcoat and bowtie in a once-over that could have given him a nomination in at least one drag ball category. “...This isn’t exactly great for PR. Not for our lot.”

“But--” Aziraphale began. 

“Listen sunshine. You’re good at writing - I trust you to do that. But I’m good at selling. So let me take care of that part of it. And adorable as you are to your stuffy bookstore customers, the truth is, your image is a part of the book itself.” Gabriel snapped up his eyebrows and tightened his smile another notch. “We’re selling the books, but we’re also selling you. And that means making yourself presentable. On the page... and off of it.” He brushed some invisible crumbs off of Aziraphale’s shoulder. “You get my drift, don’t you?” 

Aziraphale’s gaze dropped to the book - the photo from ten years ago. He was smiling fakely into the camera, his mouth turned up but his eyes remaining untouched by its expression. He was still hiding back then. He hadn’t come out at that stage - not to anyone except himself.

“I’m not saying any big changes,” soothed Gabriel. “Just for the author photo, at least. Maybe update your closet a bit.”

Aziraphale choked down a pained laugh. 

_ Update.  _ It sounded so innocent.

By the sound of it, they would be renovating so he could move back in.

* * *

Simply speaking: he didn’t have the fight left in him. 

He’d done the coming-out thing once. It had left him with deep wounds, scars he still couldn’t shake. Like a veteran who was still haunted by the last war and wanted nothing to do with the new one, he recoiled from the idea of enlisting, closed the windows, drew the curtains, and pretended it wasn’t happening. 

Sure, Gabriel hadn’t specifically said he needed to hide his sexuality - but the implication was there. And as the letters from readers began to pour in, it became more and more clear what sort of audience he was writing for. These people - lovely as they were - would not want to listen to a gay, ex-catholic book collector who wrote fanfiction in his free time. 

They wanted - needed - the Aziraphale he’d built himself up to be.

Or rather, the Aziraphale Gabriel had built him up to be. 

Crowley, predictably enough, was furious on his behalf.

“That’s bullshit!”

Aziraphale shushed him gently. “I know but--”

“But nothing!” protested the other, though he did take it down a notch and closed most of his mouth, continuing his rant out of the corner of it. “Who bloody cares who you are, what you look like...? They’re reading a book! My audience has no idea who I am and they still have a wank just the same!”

Aziraphale glanced over his shoulder cautiously. “Will you keep it down?”

As if his nerves were contagious, Crowley succumbed to a similar check of their surroundings. They didn’t have much to worry about - the theatre was practically empty. He leaned in. “Is this why you wanted to go to the later showing?”

“I figured it might be easier to get lost in the crowd. But there’s hardly any people here.” Aziraphale sighed and edged down in his seat. “Look, it’s not ideal. I don’t like it either. But Gabriel is correct about one thing - the audience has their image of me already. I can’t exactly risk it now. We’re already planning the next series of stories. I’m getting more letters every day. I have a lot riding on this.”

Grumbling an accompaniment, Crowley muttered something that might have been the words ‘ _ wish I was riding on this _ ’. Aziraphale pretended not to have heard, grateful for the fact that the theatre was dark enough to hide the red tinge on his cheeks. It was an old building and the seats were small, meaning every once in a while, their shoulders would brush when Crowley leaned on the arm rest. It was distracting enough as it was without the other’s comments. 

He knew he had been foolish to accept the invitation - but it hadn’t been the first time. If he wanted to stop himself now he would also have to justify the past year or so of emails, proof-readings, ‘proof-readings-with-light-editing’ and ‘fine-just-give-it-to-me-I’ll-write-it’ and nights in his back room spent with a bottle of wine which had been growing exponentially in frequency.

Of course, there were limits. He told himself this, and he thoroughly believed it. Crowley, meanwhile, believed in testing those limits, pushing them. Every time a new line was drawn in the sand he came in like a tide, erasing it, forcing it inland. Aziraphale always drew the next one, but it seemed that there was an unspoken agreement that some things were meant to be tested. He had almost come to anticipate it by this point. It was just nature - Crowley’s inexplicable need to question every single guideline thrown at him. It had been something which Aziraphale respected about the other far too much to protest overtly.

And yet. 

There was one line even Crowley had not yet crossed - or even so much as touched. It was never outlined explicitly - and in fact, Aziraphale had no memory of mentioning it at all. But unlike the others, it had been unquestionably left alone. 

Taking care to avoid moving his head, Aziraphale flickered his eyes to his left. 

In the low light of the movie screen, Crowley’s profile glowed - the drop of his forehead, the edge of his nose, the stubborn jut of his jaw. His hair, which he had been growing out again (much to Aziraphale’s muted delight) now framed his face, sometimes hiding his ears and more often hiding the tiny snake tattoo on his temple. He kept his sunglasses on. 

They were almost alone in the theatre. There was an old man in the row parallel, but he appeared to be nodding off. A few more people down below them - 3 out of 5 on their phones. The young couple they’d spotted in the top row were almost guaranteed to be snogging now that the movie had properly started. 

Speaking of which, if Crowley were to reach out and touch his cheek... turn his face... lean in and slide his lips up against Aziraphale’s mouth... who would notice them?

But he didn’t. 

Crowley hadn’t so much as touched his hand since that fateful night over a year ago. They’d never discussed it. Never mentioned it. Never brought it up. Their distance remained cordially professional. Aside from the occasional tap on the arm or an inconsequential brush of their coats, Crowley acted like a magnet with mirroring charge, hovering just outside Aziraphale’s personal bubble. 

And it was torture, but Aziraphale knew better. 

_ We shouldn’t, _ he thought desperately, again and again and again, at every single instinctual desire to grab the stupidly handsome man by the jacket and drag him in closer and sink his fingers into his hair. He knew it would be a bad idea.  _ We shouldn’t, _ he repeated, a mantra, a chant, a prayer to keep himself on that edge.

_ We can’t _ , he told himself simultaneously, pulling excuses out of a hat like a magician.

Because if they did... what would be next? A series of one night stands? A serial case of secret dates? An endless spiral of hiding? 

Crowley was beautiful, and sexy, and charismatic. And if he were to try to take this somewhere - only a dead end awaited them. He couldn’t very well give Crowley anything - not a stable relationship, not a promise of any sort of openness, not any amount of public honesty. His entire life had been steepled in lies - he had spent the first half of it clawing his way from the clutches of organized religion, then the closet and now... Now he was crawling right back in. And he knew he wouldn’t be able to come out again - not for a long time. 

And Crowley wouldn’t want that sort of life. Crowley liked flashy displays and romantic recklessness. Crowley deserved more - more than a frumpy, closeted, chubby, bookseller. He deserved a real relationship with someone as attractive as he was. To fulfil whatever fantasy he had that kept him writing all those wonderful, terrible, addictively trashy stories.

Even if Aziraphale himself was selfish enough to think that the man might possibly want something - even if it was another hookup - surely Crowley didn’t need to have him clinging like a deadweight, pretending they could be something, when clearly that was out of the question. 

He turned - and his breath caught as he realized that Crowley was staring back, his expression unreadable from behind his dark glasses. His hand was half-raised for some reason, as if poised to reach down between them, but as soon as he realized he was being watched, he jerked it back and tucked it hurriedly into his armpit. 

“What?” he asked, and his voice grated out more sharp and scratchy than usual. 

Aziraphale felt his throat closing up. “Nothing,” he murmured, and turned away toward the screen, unseeing. 

It  _ was _ nothing, he realized with a cold shudder. They had sex - once. That had been it. He was making it out to be more than it had been, that was all.

Clearly, whatever it was Crowley was after, he’d got his fill and had... perhaps... moved on. There was no definitive way to prove anything regarding how mutual the remaining gravitational well of attraction was without taking the necessary step beyond the event horizon of the black hole of his own feelings - and that was promised to be a disaster in terms of all possible outcomes. Whatever sexual tension lingered between them was perfectly manageable. Aziraphale had plenty of practice in  _ that  _ particular flavor of repression, thank goodness. 

_ We won’t, _ he thought. The words rang out in his head, a church bell tolling. The summoning. The promise. A new rosary. 

_ I shouldn’t, I can’t, I won’t _ .

And so - for the next 5 years - he didn’t.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know what? I think I'll still post the next chapter on Sunday as promised. I'm shooting myself in the foot in terms of buffer, but I want you guys to read this. 
> 
> (P.S. I'm a dumbass atheist and I did as much research as I could in the religious direction of this, but if any of you are catholic and notice weird discrepancies, I'd love to hear em!)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We're back in the present, full of pining and yearning and idiocy. Off they go. :)

* * *

It was nothing short of a miracle that he’d made it this far. This far being - the bottom of the steps. That was far enough for him as it was. Going away - leaving his shop -  _ his books!  _ \- for a whole week! No, longer than that - 11 days! It was unthinkable. 

What was more unthinkable was that he would be spending those days with Crowley as his husband. It was almost too much. He didn’t know how he would even make it to the airport and face Gabriel without spontaneously combusting on the way. He didn’t know how he would face  _ Crowley _ at the airport without combusting. The last thing he needed was to have his ridiculous lack of self-control parading around in broad daylight.

It turned out he didn’t really have a choice. Like a curse of some sort disguised as a miracle, Crowley descended on his bookshop 10 minutes prior to his departure, threw open the doors and began his career as a method actor. 

“Aziraphale we’re going to be  _ late _ ! Are you seriously not ready yet?”

“I’m coming, I told you! You didn’t have to come get me--”

“I clearly did, because you’re not even ready! My car is right here - won’t make a difference if I leave now. Stop kissing your individual books goodbye and get on with it. Where is your luggage?”

“Behind the register--”

“I’ll get it. Just hurry with-- Wait, is that all?”

“It’s the tartan one by the desk!”

“I bloody know it’s the tartan one - the problem is the one! You only have one bag?”

“How many are you bringing?”

“Hell of a lot more than that. Listen - you do know what snow is, don’t you? White, clumpy stuff? The  _ other _ white clumpy stuff. Falls from the sky? It’s cold? It makes you cold? Has it ever occurred to you that it’s cold in America?”

“I’ll ask that you don’t judge my choice in packing, thank you very much. I’m a 46 year old man, I think I can figure out how to dress myself--good lord,  _ what are you wearing _ ?”

“What? ‘S my best shirt!”

“ _ Has it ever occurred to you it’s cold in America? _ ”

“ _ I’m a 46 year old man, I can dress myself! _ And I’ve got a  _ jacket _ \- in one of my  _ many bags _ ! Which are in the car! Unlike you!”

“I’ll be in the car soon enough. With your driving we’ll be there early anyway.”

Crowley grumbled under his breath in reply and paced nervously at the door as if he was the one who was gambling his career on this ridiculous scheme. As if  _ his _ head was on the chopping block. It wasn’t and it wouldn’t ever be. He was, at this point, anonymous enough to slip through life unnoticed as long as you didn’t catch the name on his ID - which he rarely used these days because he had the money to manufacture fake ones (when questioned by Aziraphale, he waved it off and said he was supporting local artists).

In the end Aziraphale was right. They were not late - the combination of his careful survey of traffic and Crowley’s lack of respect for the lanes painted into the tarmac worked in beautiful harmony to get them to the airport in a prompt manner. 

“Not that I’m not grateful,” he said when they finally climbed out (miraculously unscathed by both laws of physics and the laws of London’s traffic ordinance) and gathered their luggage. “But why  _ did _ you come and pick me up?”

“Insurance,” replied Crowley, adjusting his glasses, adjusting his shirt collar, adjusting his hair. Each movement was controlled, precise - and an utter betrayal of the fact that he was almost as anxious about this as Aziraphale was. “It’s more natural if we come together. S’posed to be married, aren’t we?”

“Yes, but we’re not even in America yet,” replied Aziraphale. “And Gabriel’s supposed to-- Oh bugger, there he is.”

And there he was. Grinning, and wearing some ridiculously expensive scarf and approaching them like an airliner coming in for a landing - arms spread wide and making a ridiculous amount of noise. 

“Aziraphale!” he boomed cheerfully. “Wow, you weren't kidding!” He was staring at Crowley - who bared his teeth in a vague animal-like approximation of a smile - and punched the author’s arm cheerfully. “That’s much better than what I expected!”

Rubbing his arm where it had suffered the unnecessary wound of manly bonding rituals, Aziraphale slapped together something that was meant to resemble a tolerant smile.

Taking no notice of this, Gabriel returned to inspecting Crowley almost critically. “Honestly, I’m a little surprised. I kind of thought you would, you know...” The editor turned back to Aziraphale and lowered his voice. “...go for something less subtle. But seriously, if you need to pay him off, as long as this goes well I’ll cut you a check to cover the--”

“Gabriel.” Aziraphale interrupted hurriedly. “Please.”

“Not to worry,” said Crowley, seeing his chance and homing in on it. “He’s paying me in other ways.” The shock on Gabriel’s face seemed to be enough to satisfy him and the next grin was a bit more legitimate - and somehow even more animalistic.

“He’s joking,” Aziraphale countered quickly, before his editor could direct the scandalized gaze at him. “He likes to play pranks on people. He’s--An old acquaintance.” 

“Oh?” asked Gabriel, adjusting his jacket and giving Crowley another once-over. “Didn’t know Aziraphale had those. Are you also in the uh... Book business?”

“You could say that,” replied Crowley, winding up another shit-eating grin.

“He’s a lawyer,” inserted Aziraphale before another disaster could occur. When Crowley whipped his head around to protest, he not-so-subtly stepped on the man’s foot and plastered on an intense, innocent smile. “He deals mostly with copyright infringement cases.”

“Yikes,” said Gabriel sympathetically. 

“Yikes,” agreed Crowley, though he was looking at Aziraphale now, his lips pursed.

Aziraphale removed his foot and tugged on his bowtie self-consciously. “Shall we check-in?”

The attempt to prompt the party towards some sort of resolution was half-lived. Although they did pick up the bags and move to the passport check, while stuck in line Gabriel seemed to become restless without positive social feedback and honed in on Crowley as his next potential victim.

“You must deal with a lot of poor literature in your line of work,” he began, and Crowley, whether of his own accord or responding to Aziraphale’s knowing eye-roll, visibly braced for the punchline. “You haven’t happened to run across any... lawsuits regarding pornographic literature, have you?”

“Uh...” Arching his eyebrows and puckering his lips in a flashingly failing display of casualty, the husband stand-in shifted from one foot to the other. “Naw. Can’t recall any to be honest. Not my field.”

“Really?” Gabriel frowned a bit. “I imagine you’d deal with the lowest of the low in court. Obscene works fall under that umbrella, surely.”

“Well it’s--” Crowley shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and looked around for an excuse. “It’s more complicated than that, the law is. Got lots of uh. Departments. Lots of. Sub-specialties. NDAs, for example. Subpoena. Sequestration.” He was clearly picking words randomly categorized under ‘law jargon’ out of a hat - and thankfully Gabriel seemed none the wiser. “I personally deal with the-- the copyright clauses. Such as--” He shot a look at Aziraphale, as if he couldn’t help habitually seeking help in him. “Such as the Anne Rice C&D debacle.” 

Beside him, Aziraphale stifled his laughter with a well-timed coughing fit, but Gabriel nodded sympathetically and said “Ah, of course.” Most of the sympathy was reserved for himself, given that Crowley had burned his only bridge to the conversation he actually wanted to have, and he was now forced to seek another way to get there. 

Whether out of his own masochistic curiosity, or out of the need to repay Aziraphale for throwing him under the bus, Crowley decided to cooperate: “Why do you ask?” he inquired.

Gabriel lit up, then hurried to school it into a concerned frown. “Oh, just professional curiosity I suppose. I have a specific author in mind, you see, who I’m sure is guilty of at least some law-breaking.” Without waiting for the other to even finish his neutral grunt, Gabriel plowed ahead: “Have you heard of Anthony J. Crowley?”

(Anthony J.) Crowley’s eyebrows climbed and his mouth spasmed into a delighted grin. “Can’t say that I have,” he replied cheerfully. 

“Oh, well, let me tell you--” Gabriel began - and proceeded to do just that. 

Aziraphale observed in silent horror as Crowley’s face journey completed all the natural stages of absolute joy, like a child being handed a gift to unwrap. He listened along with Gabriel’s tirade with genuine interest now, nodding and even adding  _ aizuchi _ when the editor paused to take a breath between paragraphs of airing his usual grievances. It was difficult to say which one of them was enjoying the conversation more - Gabriel, who was finally having his viewpoint vehemently validated - or Crowley, who was learning of his horrible reputation with the exhilaration of a criminal mastermind seeing his face on a Wanted poster for the first time.

While this brilliant almost-friendship was unfolding right in front of him, Aziraphale watched the line to the passport check-in dwindling. The person ahead of them stepped away to the counter and finally it seemed like there was a light at the end of the tunnel. Once they were past security he could finally stop worrying about Gabriel realizing who he was talking to and start worrying about the next thing on the list. 

The airline attendant glanced up and motioned to him - and Aziraphale immediately turned around, eager to separate his editor from his ticking time-bomb of a husband.

_ Not husband _ , he had to remind himself vigorously, and shook his head to clear it. “Look, we’re next. You go first Cr--” 

Crowley glanced back at him and in that split second, Aziraphale realized what he was about to do. It was like being in a tram with two diverging tracks. Tied to one end of the tracks was his cover - about to be blown. Tied to the other end was his dignity. 

He pulled the lever. 

“You go first, crumpet.” 

Crowley’s mouth jumped into a delighted grin. “Crumpet?” he repeated.

Gabriel seemed equally startled. “Getting into character already, are we? There’s a good man.” He patted Aziraphale’s shoulder roughly and then winced with theatrical effects. “Maybe tone it down, though. Crumpet’s a bit...”

“Right,” Aziraphale said weakly, closing his eyes to deal with the embarrassment without having to look at Crowley’s thrilled expression.

“You can call me whatever you want,” Crowley assured him. “Angel.”

Like a slowed down action shot in a film that was meant to showcase the depth of the mistake someone had made a moment prior, Aziraphale’s eyes drifted open and locked on him. Crowley’s smile fell by a minute degree, and in several frames, the realization that he had crossed a line weighed heavy on his brow. He appeared to be remembering that he was not the only one who had ammunition for this gunfight. 

“Off you go then,” Aziraphale said icily. “...darling.”

The pet-name hit like a silver bullet: Crowley’s jaw tightened and he turned a peculiar shade of pink, but said nothing else - just grabbed his suitcases and plowed past Aziraphale and towards the counter.

It wasn’t like Aziraphale didn’t feel bad. One might call this hitting below the belt - though perhaps hitting was the wrong word for what that particular monicker had done to him in the past (the location was accurate). 

But Crowley had started it! He knew that Aziraphale tried to keep his association with his old username as secret as possible, and he knew that it was something they were only allowed to joke about after two or three drinks, never out in public,  _ with Gabriel right there _ .

Three minutes later, once Crowley’s suitcases were loaded onto the conveyor belt and they had both shuffled out towards the line for the security check, at least one issue resolved itself - Gabriel finally bid them goodbye. Nevermind that they had barely spent 20 minutes around each other - it was already too long for Aziraphale.

The feeling wasn’t exactly mutual. “Well,” Gabriel said to him, raising his eyebrows meaningfully. “I hate to leave, but I’m afraid it’s on you from this point onward.”

“Right,” said Aziraphale. 

“Don’t let this opportunity go to waste.”

“Of course,” said Aziraphale again. 

“I’m serious, don’t mess this up.”

“I won’t.” He cleared his throat nervously and adjusted the carry-on bag on his shoulder.

“We won't,” Crowley said. Having apparently recalibrated himself to his usual level of troublemaking, he slung an arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders. 

Gabriel’s smile twitched, but he reached out a hand. “And it was great meeting you-- uh...”

“Call me Ashtoreth,” supplied Crowley, seizing his fingers with minimal brevity for politeness’ sake. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure this one stays out of trouble.”

“Excellent,” chuckled Gabriel and, seeming encouraged, plowed onward. “And make sure he stays out of the eggnog! And the Christmas turkey or whatever it is they have over there! I keep telling him he won’t fit in the frame for his next author photo if he keeps up like this.”

Aziraphale sagged, already preemptively preparing himself for the incoming storm, but in a stark contrast to his quick surrender, Crowley seemed to be tensing unnaturally beside him. The arm on his shoulders, which had previously been hovering in an awkward imitation of casual familiarity, suddenly turned laden. Fingers curled into his shoulder and Aziraphale would have felt flustered if he wasn’t more concerned with the abrupt change in the tone of Crowley’s voice.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

Gabriel cut his sentence short, startled properly for once, and then hurried to recover with a sardonic smile. “Well you have to admit he’s getting a bit soft.”

Crowley’s lounge against Aziraphale’s side straightened - a snake about to strike. “‘S wrong with that?” he hissed. 

An awkward silence clanged into the space between them, ringing in Aziraphale’s ears despite the stark lack of noise. The voices of the airport suddenly seemed far away, and the only thing he was aware of was Crowley’s crackling fury, the way he could almost hear the other’s quickening pulse. The heat of it was like a warm campfire to contrast Gabriel’s usual cold disappointment. In the midst of it he had completely forgotten to feel bad about the way he looked and instead found himself leaning into the flame, feeling a flare of gratefulness echoing in response to Crowley’s cacophonous, righteous anger.

But he couldn’t bask forever; Gabriel was still staring. Everything was quiet in the most uncomfortable way possible.

“We’d better get a wiggle on,” he said, cutting through the tension like a warm knife through butter. “Boarding starts soon.”

Crowley whipped his head around to him. “Huh?”

“The plane,” Aziraphale clarified. “It’s leaving. We have to be on it.”

“Yeah, I got that part,” grumbled Crowley and (disappointingly) released his grip on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “It was the ‘wiggle on’...”

Waving cordially to Gabriel, who still seemed shell-shocked by the u-turn of character, Aziraphale led them away. They remained silent until they were past the taped-off lineup and finally reached the scanners, but this seemed to be the limit for his companion. In the process of removing his boots and throwing his wallet into the plastic bins, he immediately launched into a quiet but hissy tirade.

“The nerve! What the fuck does he-- Why does it bloody matter what you look like? What business is it of his-- Who the fuck does he think he is? Fucking git--”

Aziraphale glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. “Calm down, he’s quite right,” he murmured. “I have been letting myself go.”

“He’s a sodding bastard is what he is!” Crowley snarled. “You look fine!” 

His cheeks were warming, threatening to shift color, and Aziraphale did his best to convince them to abandon the endeavor. “Don’t forget to take off your sunglasses,” he said instead of replying directly, and turned away to remove his own cardigan and toss it into the next bin along with his keys. 

Once they had been put through the wringer (which involved Aziraphale going back and forth several times to pull several coins and pins out of his various pockets) they stepped out into the stretch of hallway leading towards the gates and finally - finally! - it felt like they could breathe. Aziraphale rolled his shoulders, checked his watch, and then glanced at Crowley, who was still standing around looking rather sulkily at the gift shops. 

“You’re cold,” he said. It wasn’t a question, more of an observation - Crowley was always too cool to shiver properly, but there were other telltale signs, like the way he was pressing his elbows in, trying to wrap around himself like a boa. “It’ll be even worse in the plane. Haven’t you got a jacket?”

Crowley sniffed and crossed his arms over his chest moodily. “Several.”

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. “And?” he prompted.

“...they’re in my luggage,” Crowley muttered. 

“In your luggage?” Aziraphale thought for a moment, glanced around and confirmed that none of the aforementioned luggage was in sight. It finally dawned on him. “The ones you checked in?”

“Yeah.”

“And your carry on?”

“Checked that in too.”

Aziraphale began to open his mouth to ask why before hurriedly reconsidering. Crowley’s ears were red and although there was a chance it was from his chill, there was also the possibility that Aziraphale’s choice of pet name back at the passport counter had startled him enough to not be thinking clearly when he’d gone in. If that were truly the case, it was technically his fault.

“Good lord,” he said and pulled his own bag down before shrugging his cream-colored knit cardigan off again. “Here.”

“What.” Crowley was pointedly looking elsewhere. When Aziraphale nudged his arm, he glanced down and scrunched up his nose like a cat being offered a piece of vegetable. “Wassat for.”

“It’s a sweater. Put it on,” replied Aziraphale. “You do know the function of a sweater, don’t you?”

Crowley grabbed the offensive garment, though he continued to look displeased about it even as he shrugged his skinny arms into the large sleeves. “Doesn’t exactly match my ensemble.”

“Oh hush,” replied Aziraphale. “ _ You  _ won’t match  _ my _ ensemble if you catch a cold on the way. What kind of husband am I going to look like if I can’t even keep you from getting sick?” He glanced up at the same time as Crowley did, and caught his own reflection in the dark sunglasses. He was smiling. He hadn’t realized he was doing it and promptly instructed his face to stop. 

Crowley’s mouth spasmed like he was fighting a similarly embarrassing expression. “Thanks Angel.”

Aziraphale inhaled, ready to tell him off, but deflated at the last moment. Gabriel wasn’t around anymore and frankly, as far as terms of endearment went, this one was significantly better than the alternatives he was sure Crowley was capable of thinking up. 

“Of course dear,” he said in reply, as saccharine as he could make it, and reached up to adjust the sweater collar. It worked wonders for shutting the other up and Aziraphale idly wondered why he didn’t employ this tactic more often. Then, as he pulled away, his hand brushed Crowley’s own and he remembered the reason at once. They both flinched apart as if electrocuted and hurried to return to adjusting their own clothes in self-defence while the feeling of skin-to-skin contact died down.

Aziraphale mentally scolded himself. He’d been good about this - for six years! For six years he had kept Crowley more or less at arm’s length, kept things cordial, maintained the atmosphere, built his walls. And Crowley had been cooperating for those six years. They never discussed it, never talked about it, even if they both knew. They were on the same page. They always were. They had to be.

And now - now in the span of less than a few hours together, things were coming apart at the seams. Pet names were clawing their way from the floorboards. His old desires, once buried and shut up in a tomb of control and repression, were shaking the limestone walls apart, tearing their way out of the prison with the ease of an ocean wave crashing through a sand castle. And the fake marriage was there, holding a shovel, ready to go grave digging - an archeological site warrant in hand.

But no, self-introspection was not something they had time for.

Aziraphale surfaced from the metaphorical dirt, taking a much needed gulp of fresh air. “We should head to the gate. The plane--”

“It’s been delayed.” As proof, Crowley extracted his phone and showed him the display. “I got an update an hour ago.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale squinted at the screen for a moment, befuddled. “Why didn’t you mention it earlier?”

“Wanted to get away from that wanker Gabriel as fast as we could,” said Crowley with a reminiscent scowl. Then he wiped it off his face and looked back at Aziraphale, lifting his eyebrows. The expression cleared, and there was an upward curve to his lips, the same way there always was when he would saunter into the bookshop right after nightfall with a pair of tickets to some jazz concert at an underground bar. 

“Fancy a spot of lunch?” he chirped.

They were creatures of habit. Really, with enough repetition - intentional or not - anything can become a routine. Morning tea standing by the window looking out at the street. Tapping your shoes on the door three times before coming in. Having a wank in the mornings when you dream of the person you know you can’t touch - but you want to anyway. Seeing that person sneak in despite the CLOSED sign on the bookshop door in order to tempt you with all manner of things - bottles of wine, apple turnovers, orchestra tickets... Putting on an act of protest for the sake of it, only to inevitably cave and agree to go five minutes later. 

Aziraphale had his habits. More importantly, now he had a chance to let them run wild a bit. He had more than a week to indulge. To get used to the feeling of having things he couldn’t regularly have. To treasure those things. Right there, in the middle of the airport, he didn’t even have to worry about keeping up appearances. He was pretending to be married to Crowley; they could just go to lunch in plain sight and it would be completely justified. They could technically hold hands. They could even-- no, that might be overstepping it. 

But they  _ could _ go to lunch. The feeling alone cracked his chest open in a burst of golden light he could feel spilling forth from inside him, an earthquake of pure, unabated joy. 

Still, there were rituals. He wiggled his shoulders and narrowed his eyes at the other for a few seconds as if he was about to argue, and then put upon a dramatic sigh of defeat. Even threw an eye roll in for good measure. “Oh alright, you old serpent,” he said. “I’ll bite.” 

Crowley lit up, and jutted out an elbow and - for the first time in six years - Aziraphale took it and stepped into his side. 

He had eleven days left. 

He was not about to let them go to waste.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a relatively short chapter. They get longer from here on out.  
> (By the way, if you want to come yell at me, I'm [@thechekhov](https://thechekhov.tumblr.com/) on tumblr!)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back to the next chapter of Pining Idiots Who Are ~~Pretending To Be~~ Already Married in Every Conceivable Way And Are Just Refusing To Admit It.

* * *

Aziraphale had been on plenty of planes before - big ones, small ones, comfortable ones, stuffy ones - but he’d never been sat next to a literal demon. 

Which was precisely what Crowley proved himself to be 30 minutes after takeoff. First he demanded the window seat - but after the plane gained enough altitude, the view apparently disturbed more than it interested him and he insisted on switching seats - which forced an awkward, 90-second tessellation of both of them _and_ the unfortunate woman seated in the aisle chair. (She tried to just lean away to make room but, after hearing Crowley threaten to climb up over Aziraphale’s lap, changed her mind and stood up.)

After they were settled again Aziraphale leaned forward and gave her an apologetic look and said ‘I’m awfully sorry,’ but she didn’t appear soothed by this. She instead continued to shoot them strange glances over the next hour or so. And she had good reason to - spending any amount of time within proximity to Crowley was chaotic enough in and of itself. He complained about the cushions - wiggled his legs up against the seat in front of him until Aziraphale scolded him for disturbing the next row up - and then tried to fold them down again, only succeeding in kicking Aziraphale’s carry on bag around on the floor. He kicked off his shoes as well, and then contorted himself into a pretzel shape looking for them for another ten minutes afterward. He complained about not getting first class tickets, then complained about the time he _did_ get first class tickets. Then he just complained. 

Overall, this was not new. Aziraphale was used to two things - Crowley and his restless energy. The third thing - being trapped in a metal tube a foot away from Crowley - _was_ a novel experience. It was not a pretty addition to the equation, and he wasn’t quite sure that he was a fan. 

It would be tolerable, he thought, if Crowley was disturbing him instead of the others. Instead, he seemed dead-set on making life for the passengers around them as mildly uncomfortable as he could, which in turn meant making Aziraphale uncomfortable through the sheer power of determination and second-hand embarrassment. The bulk of this hard work was directed at the poor woman with the misfortune of being next to them who, to Aziraphale’s knowledge, had not done anything to deserve it. 

That was his assumption, at least, until they were about two hours into the flight and everything started to settle down. Crowley had evidently grown tired enough to wiggle down into a shape resembling a 3-year old’s scribble and was reading something on his phone. Aziraphale was similarly engaged to a book he’d brought along. The woman on the end of their seat island was, presumably, napping. 

At one point Crowley must have seen something he liked and instinctively leaned across the seat, offering up his phone to Aziraphale. “Angel, get a load of this Twitter thread,” he’d said. Aziraphale didn’t actually remember what it was specifically - he remembered something about the accuracy of a wikipedia page on Chevalier d'Éon and a long line of expletives and emojis - but overall it didn’t matter because the conversation was quickly interrupted by a sharp intake of breath beside them. 

They both stilled, and then looked over at the woman, who had been the one to make the noise. She was looking at them out of the corner of her eye, even more disapprovingly than before. A bit unfair, thought Aziraphale, given that Crowley was, by then, on his best behavior and she had nothing to complain about. 

“You’ve got no right,” she said very quietly. 

“I beg your pardon?” he asked, since Crowley, uncharacteristically, did not offer up a comment. He didn’t seem nearly as befuddled by the interjection for some reason. 

“Calling each other that holy word. That sort of word has no place in your mouth.” Her voice, having started out as soft, was now rising to be quite audible above the rumble of the engines. “Don’t you know you’re both going to hell?” 

The realization of what was happening was quick, and quite sobering. 

“Ah,” said Aziraphale, dropping all pretense of civility. He shut his book and reached up to remove his reading glasses, ignoring the cold lump he felt in his throat. It really shouldn’t have come as a surprise. This did happen sometimes when he and Crowley were out together, and he was more or less used to it. “I’m sorry, but--”

“What do you _mean_?” Crowley suddenly voiced from beside him in the strangest - fakest - pitch he’d ever employed.

Both the woman and Aziraphale directed their befuddled gazes to him. 

“What do I... mean?” she repeated, incredulous. “I mean you’re going to _hell_ . That _lifestyle_ you’re leading. It’s a sin.”

Crowley sat up a bit straighter - though perhaps straight was the wrong term. He arranged himself into a more vertical shape, and thanks to the length of his body, still somehow ended up fluidly draped over both his and Aziraphale’s chair. Then he propped up his chin on the palm of his hand and tilted his head a very deliberate 45 degrees to the right. “What does ‘sin’ mean?” he asked. 

Aziraphale blinked. The woman blinked too. Neither of them spoke for a while. 

Finally she said: “A sin. A bad thing...? Against... God?” It almost sounded as if she wasn’t sure. 

Crowley yanked up his eyebrows well above the line of his sunglasses. “Against _who_?” he inquired quizzically. 

_Oh good lord_ , thought Aziraphale to himself. He wanted to say something - anything - but some repressed part of him rebelled at the idea of interrupting this social experiment Crowley was apparently putting on. What’s more, now that the woman was facing more towards them he could see the T-shirt she was wearing. It said ‘SINNERS REPENT OR FACE THE WRATH OF SATAN’ and had a long list which, apparently, included more categories than he was familiar with. He could make out Witches and Homosexuals at the top of the list and presumed it continued in much the same fashion all the way down. 

Suddenly, Crowley’s insistence at being absolutely intolerable for the first hour of the flight seemed a bit more justified, and Aziraphale felt slightly less bad about everything else he’d done. 

Meanwhile, the social experiment continued. 

“God,” the woman said. “The Lord? The Almighty Creator?”

Crowley shook his head. “Never heard of her. She some new pop-star you’ve got in America?”

“He.” The correction was immediate and unreasonably irritated for the subject matter. “God is not a pop-star! God is... He’s... You’ve never heard of God?”

“Nope,” replied Crowley, cheerfully popping the P.

“The bible? You’ve never read the bible?”

“Izzat a magazine of some sort?”

“It’s-- It’s a book.”

“Oh, I don’t read books.”

“But surely you’ve-- What about church? You’ve never been to church?”

“Been lots of places,” Crowley informed her, still violently cheerful. “Don’t see what it has to do with any books or any-- what did you call this bloke? God was it?”

If it were possible to vibrate through fabric out of sheer shock, the woman’s chair would have certainly begun to suffer the consequences now. “He’s not a bloke! He’s our _Lord_ , the God, the-- Savior... It’s in the bible! Jesus - surely you’ve heard of Jesus?”

Crowley vehemently denied it. And then he vehemently denied everything else. The deeper the hole was dug, the more eagerly he stomped down any dirt thrown at him. The dedication, the commitment to every vacant ‘what do you mean, _faith_? What is that? Can I eat it?’ and every absolutely nonsensical ‘I’ve never heard of this ‘Christmas’ as you call it. Are you sure it’s that popular? We don’t have it where I come from.’ was inspiring and entertaining in a way no on-board movie could ever hope to be. Several people had turned their heads to watch the progress of the conversation like spectators gathering to the sight of a train wreck. In spite of himself, Aziraphale began to wish he could record a video, but some remaining string of decency stopped him short of extracting his phone. 

True to his reputation, Crowley was wearing his opponent down. She had begun to crack - what was first strong, vehement belief that he was just lying and trying to get a rise out of her morphed into a genuine concern that she had, somehow, come across a mysterious being with a religiously clean slate. To her credit, her concern did at least express itself in a more innocent way than one might fear. 

“You have a chance you know,” she said finally. “This is the perfect opportunity to start your life anew. You can be saved! Learn about the Lord. I’ve got holy water with me. I got it from the Vatican on my trip. Let me at least baptize you.”

Aziraphale stifled a groan and pinched the bridge of his nose. This is where it got dicey. On the one hand, the gesture was more or less benign - an extension of what she believed to be a kindness. Far better than a blind rage or lashing out. On the other hand, his background in seminary caused a knee-jerk reaction of wanting to remind her (gently) that she did not have the authority to do that, even if she so wished, in explicit detail. 

On the third hand (which he did not have, short of grabbing one of Crowley’s to haul him back and prevent the inevitable), the shenanigans which were about to ensue were much, much more disruptive than the first two points made. 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” insisted Anthony ‘Did You Seriously Think I Was About To Break Character’ Crowley. “But sure.”

The woman reached down into her purse - the method actor took his moment to flash his fake husband an impish grin - and then sat up and produced an inch-tall container and a water bottle she must have bought at the gate. 

“They told me in Rome that holy water blessed by the pope can’t be diluted. And that even a single drop can bless the entire container of whatever it’s put in,” she explained reverently as she poured some into a clear cup and upturned half the pearl-colored bottle into it.

Aziraphale cleared his throat, but Crowley elbowed him lightly as if to say ‘don’t you dare interrupt’.

“So what’s a bit of water gonna do now?” he asked with his most innocent voice. “Is it from this ‘god’ character you keep mentioning?”

“In a way--” she began.

“Magic, is it?” he asked, taking the cup from her before she could do anything. He held it up to the light, squinting from behind his shades.

The woman made to reach for it. “No, it’s not magic. The Pope blessed it. It has many properties, including keeping away evil.”

Crowley glanced back at her. “Evil you say?” At the same time, he stuck two fingers directly into the water, submerging them up to the knuckle.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then, abruptly, Crowley hissed and looked back at the cup. Aziraphale, the woman, and at least 3 people from the audience followed his gaze. Inside the previously clear liquid, a cloud of bubbling, ink-black plumes were spreading through the water. They originated from Crowley’s fingers, but very quickly obscured it and continued bubbling. 

“Ow,” said Crowley casually, removing his finger and shaking it. “Well that wasn’t very nice.”

Aziraphale glanced at the woman. She was still looking at the now-pitch-black liquid inside the plastic cup, pale as a sheet and frozen in shock. 

“I think I’ll skip out on the baptism today,” Crowley continued, and then delicately placed the tainted black ‘holy water’ back on her table. “It was a nice try, darling, but it’ll take a bit more than that, I’m afraid.” He licked the remaining stain from his finger lightly and grinned with all his available teeth. “Ooh, spicy.”

A flurry of movement interrupted his gloating; the woman - and the cup - went tumbling to the cabin floor in a whirlwind. The cup remained where it was but the woman made herself scarce very quickly, grabbing her bag and fleeing down the aisle with a half-choked scream. The remaining viewers looked back at Crowley, almost as if expecting a continuation, but he merely wiped his hand on his jeans and then glanced about with a neutral expression. 

“Show’s over,” he announced. “Don’t worry, no one is getting damned. I’m on holiday.”

“Really now,” tutted Aziraphale when most of the audience had turned away and began to whisper and giggle quietly amongst themselves. “There _were_ other ways to deal with that.”

“None as fun as that one,” argued Crowley, settling deeper into his seat and propping his knees up again. “Besides,” he added, flicking his sunglasses down his nose to look at the man beside him. “I’m not the one who came up with the idea.” He reached into the oversized sleeve of the knit sweater he was wearing and withdrew a tiny aluminum square of a blister pack. One of its pockets had been punctured, and half a black, chalky tablet remained.

Aziraphale held out his hand and Crowley set it back into his palm. 

“Thanks for the activated charcoal, Angel.”

“Thought she might make you drink that water, is all,” Aziraphale said, putting the tablet away into his jacket pocket and adjusting his shirt collar primly. “Who knows what was in it. Just wanted to be safe. How you put it to use is entirely on you, not me.”

“Whatever you say, Reverend,” said Crowly, earning himself a swat on the arm. 

“Don’t you start,” scolded Aziraphale and then settled in, reopening his book again. “And put your legs down, what if the person in front of you wants to recline? There’s an empty seat next to yours now - and I doubt she’s coming back. Use that instead.”

The prediction turned out to be right - the woman never did return. Whether or not she’d spoken with the stewards was not clear. One of them came over half an hour later to look around, but by that time Crowley had collected the plastic cup and wiped up some of the damage to the carpet, and so there was not much left for them to do.

The flight continued rather peacefully after that, save for the moment when Crowley turned sideways and utilized the extra spot to give his long legs room to stretch and leaned back against Aziraphale’s arm in the process. A very steady drumbeat started up in Aziraphale’s chest, but he endeavored not to react and instead continued to stare at the words on the page in front of him. He must have read the same sentence at least fifteen times before he felt Crowley relax, almost imperceptibly, against him, and realized that the other must have been just as tense about the decision.

It was no great matter. Leaning against each other - that was fine. They were supposed to be married. This was one of the perks, having Crowley pressed up against him, even in a small way. Just having that point of contact, even through the fabric of his shirt sleeve, was enough.

He flipped the page, and, as a result, Crowley slouched further, evidently taking his lack of protest as a positive sign.

At some point he fell asleep. Dinner came around and after ordering himself a meal warily Aziraphale argued for a few moments with the staff about getting a vegan option for ‘his husband’. It was only after the food had been surrendered and the trolley had long gone that Crowley uncoiled into a proper sitting position and stopped his pretend nap. 

“You didn’t have to do that,” he muttered. “They always mess it up anyway.” 

“You should say something,” Aziraphale argued, peeling off the aluminum cover on his chicken and pasta. “They won’t know they’ve got it wrong if you don’t.”

“It’s fine,” said Crowley.

“It’s not. You always do this,” chided Aziraphale softly, still not looking at him. “Remember that time we went to Sarastro, over by the Royal Opera House? You told them your dietary restrictions when you made reservations and they forgot and brought you beef, and you didn’t say anything then, either.”

“Didn’t want to be a bother, they were busy,” countered Crowley. He opened up a steaming pile of vegetables and examined it critically before sighing. “This smells like shit, but at least it’s edible. What would I do without you?”

“Starve, presumably,” replied Aziraphale, pushing a piece of pasta behind his cheek and chewing on it in contemplation of Crowley’s previous assessment of the word ‘edible’. “In fact, I’m sometimes afraid to ask what you eat when you’re on your own. I suspect dry ramen is somehow involved.” 

“Used to do that,” Crowley admitted. “Back at uni. Just eat the whole thing as is, upturn the flavor packet into my mouth afterward.” He demonstrated by picking up the plastic tray of his vegan meal and consuming it in a similar manner, shoveling 90% of the contents into his mouth in one go. 

“It’s a miracle you’re still alive,” sighed Aziraphale, watching him with a mixture of fond concern. “You’re going to choke.”

“Mffhaih,” replied Crowley through a mouthful of what was probably rice. “Neh-hah’ad ah furoghu’em shwah’ohigh...”

“Chew, dear,” the long-suffering author insisted. 

Crowley made a few guttural noises next to him and finally seemed to get the food down. “I said,” he clarified, wiping the corner of his mouth with a devilish grin. “I’ve never had a problem swallowing before.”

There was a tense pause and then Aziraphale moved to swat at him with his paperback just as Crowley, having already anticipated the attack, jumped back and stood up in the aisle, stretching demonstrably. 

“Gonna go to the bathroom, Angel,” he said. “Don’t miss me too much.”

“Don’t bother coming back!” called Aziraphale over the top of the seat before settling back in to stab at his chicken with a disgruntled huff. He was halfway to nibbling at it when he noticed someone else looking at him from over the top of the seat. Only the eyes and nose were visible, but it seemed to be a man in his late twenties, and even without seeing his mouth, the way his eyes crinkled in delight made it obvious that he was smiling. 

“Men. Can’t live with them, can’t live without them, am I right?” he said. 

Aziraphale smiled nervously before realizing he had no reason to worry. Unlike the woman from before, this particular seat-neighbor was clearly friendly. And besides, he was in the seat in front of them, which Crowley had been kicking the whole time they’d been there, so it was probably better to be thankful he wasn’t striking up a conversation to air his grievances instead. 

“Yes, I’m afraid that’s... how it is.” He chuckled, and then glanced up. “I apologize for the earlier disturbance.”

“Are you kidding me?” asked the man, pulling himself up a little bit more. The hint of a dark, curly beard made itself visible. “That was the most fun I’ve had on an airplane in years. And she got what was coming to her. Some people really need that sort of experience to snap them out of it.”

Aziraphale hummed. “Perhaps, but really, one must consider what sort of state they must be living in. Usually they need our kindness most of all.”

The man considered it, looking away for a moment, and then folded his arms over the back of the seat and set his chin on them. “Are you still a Reverend?” 

Ignoring the uncomfortable jump in his chest cavity, Aziraphale picked up another piece of plasticky pasta.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, I just--”

“Oh, no, it’s fine, I don’t mind,” he hurried to say, though his eyes were focused on his food instead of the stranger above him. “A long time ago, I was, but that’s not the case anymore. My... dear husband... just likes to tease me about it, is all.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t say anything to her.”

“That chapter of my life is over now. And not to sound too presumptuous but... in my experience, it rarely makes a difference to people who approach faith in such a militant manner. Regardless of what your beliefs are, your relationship with God should be the most private one in your life. Though,” he added sheepishly, “that’s just my personal opinion.”

There was a beat of silence. “It’s a pity,” said the man. “That you left the church, I mean. I think they could really use more people like you.” 

It was a kind thing to say, so ignoring the fact that it was something he would never do, Aziraphale thanked him. 

“If I may ask,” continued the man. “How long have you and your husband been together?”

Aziraphale glanced up at this, and, out of pure habit, his eyes flipped to the other passengers around them before he realized with a start that _it was fine_ . He and Crowley were _supposed_ to be together. That was the story. 

Though the story hadn’t exactly been well-developed. Not that it was a problem. On the contrary, this was how most of their collaborations started out. Par for the course; at least he had experience building on minimal details. 

“Six years or so,” he admitted vaguely. It wasn’t a lie. He liked not lying, when he could help it. “We knew each other longer than that, though.”

“That’s inspiring,” said the man. Under the weight of Aziraphale’s gaze, he explained himself sheepishly: “Makes me feel like there’s hope for people like us. You two just seem... so comfortable with each other. It must be nice, finding love like that. It’s rare.”

Something felt stuck in the back of Aziraphale’s throat all of a sudden. He wanted to blame it on the airline food, but it was unlikely to be the culprit. He blinked once, twice, to clear his head, and then forced a smile, hoping it passed for shy instead of resentful. “I’m very lucky to have the opportunities that I’ve had,” he said, voice lower now. It was still, technically, not a lie. He could have nothing. At least he knew Crowley. At least they were... acquaintances. Friends. Partners - _business_ partners. Partners in... crime, technically. But it was better than nothing. He had to remind himself over and over again to count his blessings. “Though it hasn’t always been a walk in the park.”

“You can say that again. My parents were nutters, just like that one.” He indicated to the woman who was, presumably, still somewhere at the back of the plane if she hadn’t attempted to jump out with a parachute by now. “It’s been getting better in the recent years, though, hasn’t it? Not like it was ten years ago. I hear we might be legalizing marriage soon.”

Aziraphale set aside his fork and took out his handkerchief to wipe his hands slowly. “True,” he admitted in a lighter tone. “Things have been looking up.” For him, things were looking up for the next 11 days, at least. 

And really, he should be thankful. Thankful that he couldn’t marry Crowley - if that had been part of the plan for their game of pretend, then he might have had to suffer through a consequential divorce as well. 

He knew he would not be able to bear it. 

* * *

America was approximately what he expected - loud, large and unchanged since the last time he’d visited. As they bumbled their way off of the plane in a daze, adjusting to daylight, he let Crowley take the lead and instead struggled a few steps behind with his carry on in tow. The long hallways blurred into a mess of windows and blank white walls, and if someone were to ask him how he got through security, he would not be able to relate the information in any amount of detail. 

Still, the process was simple enough and, once they were laden with Crowley’s dozens of bags again, they paused to take refuge in an alcove near some vending machines. Labels of unfamiliar candybars stared back at him through the glass, beckoning with unknown contents (probably high-calorie, a little voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like Gabriel reminded him). He stared back, thinking about how he usually preferred to travel alone, and how odd it was to now be standing beside someone who was vehemently swearing about Airport WiFi - and somehow be feeling completely at peace with it.

Then again, it _was_ Crowley. He had made plenty of exceptions for him before.

He checked his watch and glanced around, squinting past the crowds of people at the displays pointing to various parts of the airport. “So, it’s currently 10AM, and we have quite a bit of time. They said they wouldn’t be able to meet us here,” he added. “And I didn’t really want them to, so we’ll have to find some sort of bus up to-- what was it again? New Hampshire?”

“We’re in America, Angel. It’s a five hour drive. No buses,” replied Crowley, who was jabbing at something on his sleek black smartphone. “We’re going by car.”

Aziraphale looked up and blinked at him. “A car?” he asked. “Where are we supposed to get a car?”

“At the car rental. I made a reservation.”

“And where, pray tell,” continued Aziraphale with practiced patience. “Are you planning to get an American driver’s license?”

Crowley rolled his head lazily towards him and reached into his back pocket before procuring a curious piece of what looked to be hard-back grey paper with an official-looking red stamp on it. “No need for prayer. International Driver’s Permit should do it, I think.”

Aziraphale looked at it, looked back at Crowley, and heaved a deep sigh. “At least you have some sort of document this time. Though I think I will pray,” he added. “Might increase our chances of survival, you never know.”

“You’re going to exorcise me on accident is what you will do.” 

“Bold of you to assume I can exorcise you, even on purpose,” replied Aziraphale and they turned around, gathered up their things, and went along down the way that was specifically labeled with the sign ‘Airport Car Rental’. 

The one advantage of being in a foreign land where no one knew them was that there was no way for the pleasant girl behind the counter to realize what sort of mistake she was making as she handed over the keys to a grinning Crowley. Aziraphale tried to hold off on making a comment, but as they descended to the garage and followed the map to the parking space where the vehicle was apparently waiting for them, he couldn’t help groaning at the sight of the jet-black, angular monster on wheels. 

“A Jeep, really?” he asked, standing off to the side to watch the bags flying into a pile in the boot one after the other. “Aren’t these supposed to be for off-road use? We’re not going _camping_.”

“It’s a car, just like any other,” said Crowley from somewhere in the back seat. His long legs were sticking out the door for a moment and then he righted himself again. “Besides, it’s sturdy.”

“How self-aware of you,” quipped Aziraphale, but he got into the passenger seat all the same. 

The drive was less perilous than he’d originally thought. The mass of the Jeep did help calm his nerves some, and Crowley only played the ‘oops which side of the road am I supposed to be on again?’ trick once. For the most part, they fought with the GPS instead of each other, and once Aziraphale got peckish and requested a pit-stop, Crowley was kind enough to make it up to him by turning into what turned out to be a rather lovely side-of-the-road waffle house. 

Following lunch, keeping their eyes open became a more pressing issue, however. 

“You didn’t really sleep on the plane at all, did you?” asked Aziraphale, staring determinedly at the canopy of trees rushing by just outside the window, fighting off the urge to yawn. He hadn’t slept at all either, though in his case the possibility of nodding off was far less perilous. “Maybe we should find a place to stay for the night?”

“Nah, ‘m fine,” insisted Crowley, though he was also blinking rather forcefully from behind his sunglasses. “It’s already been nearly 20 hours. At this point it’s best to keep going till nightfall. I’m about to catch my second wind anyway. I’ll just put on some music.”

After a bit of poking around with the radio, they finally settled on a station that seemed to be determinedly playing one Queen song after another, which Crowley finally agreed was the most acceptable option given that their only others were a Classical Music channel and a religious talk-show currently in the middle of discussing Who Was Going To Hell. 

“Already there, thanks,” Crowley had sneered, and then looked over at Aziraphale guiltily. “Not talking about you, angel.”

“I know dear,” mumbled Aziraphale, too sleepy at that point to keep up with what was happening. He heard Crowley fumbling with the dial, and then the opening chords of Crazy Little Thing Called Love filtered through the speakers again. 

A small part of his brain that was still more or less awake wondered why they were keeping up the nicknames in private, where no one needed to hear them. Habit, he finally decided for himself. It was good to make a habit of it so they wouldn’t slip up later on. It wasn’t as if he was worried about being questioned too much - surely the last thing the uptight American diplomat would be worried about was what pet-names he used for his spouse. In fact, it was likely he wouldn’t care for any display of affection between two men at all. That was a relief, Aziraphale thought willfully, ignoring the part of himself that actually found that it was disappointed with this prospect. He was greedy, it was true. He had hoped to get away with at least some hand-holding. Surely Crowley would forgive him that. After all, he had curled up against Aziraphale’s shoulder on the plane without complaining, so perhaps small acts of physical affection weren’t off-limits. 

Not that they’d discussed it. That was the other problem. They had barely even talked about the trip at all since agreeing to the matter on that fateful evening of drinking together. Everything else had been done through emails that were barely a full sentence - prices, names to put down on the plane ticket... They hadn’t even bothered to get--

“Rings,” gasped Aziraphale. He tried to peel open his eyes as his brain function came back online after what had been, apparently, the middle of a nap. Beside him, there was an odd shuffling of movement, but it was otherwise relatively quiet. The music station had, evidently, been shut off.

He brought his hands up to his face to rub at it, and then finally resurfaced into a state that could be more or less described as wakefulness. The action wasn’t entirely helpful - everything was dark for some reason even when he opened his eyes. He looked around blearily at the windows and then over at Crowley, who was behind the wheel, sitting very still and staring very intently at his phone.

“Why aren’t we moving?” he asked. “Is something the matter?”

“Trip’s over. We’re here,” said Crowley, still not looking up. “This should be the place. I was about to wake you up.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” mumbled Aziraphale right before drowning the latter half of the apology in a yawn. “I didn’t even realize I’d nodded off...” He leaned forward to get a better look from the windshield and instead saw mostly white. The wipers were dancing back and forth to clear the snow, but in a hole in the clouds somewhere above them, he could catch a glimpse of a brilliantly black stardust-speckled sky framed by the noble edges of evergreens. 

“Goodness,” he hummed. “We’re really out in the country, aren’t we?”

“Middle of nowhere, you mean,” said Crowley. He looked up from his phone and to his left, and then over his shoulder. “Shit, this should be it, but there’s a chain up. Maybe we’ll have to walk.”

“Not far, I should hope. It’s really coming down. I should try to ring them up before we head out, just so we don’t get lost wandering in the woods in the middle of a blizzard.” 

Crowley turned back to him and although it looked for a second like he was about to kill the engine, he stopped short instead, staring at Aziraphale with a very curious, closed-off expression. “Ring them up,” he muttered, as if remembering something. “Wait a second. What was it you said just a moment ago?” The soft light from the dashboard of the car drew a single, jagged line of orange atop his brow as it aimed downward. “Something about rings...?”

“Hm? I just-- Oh!” Aziraphale would have leapt forward, but the seatbelt kept him firmly in place. “The rings!” he said. “We forgot about the rings, Crowley! Wedding rings!”

Crowley’s scowl returned for a moment. “I actually did think about that,” he admitted, his face oddly flushed. “But then I figured if we bought them new it would look even more fake and... and anyway, sometimes people don’t wear rings.”

“I think it’s better to have _something_ ,” insisted Aziraphale, looking around as if he hoped to discover a box placed on top of the dashboard. “You wear jewelry, don’t you?” he asked finally. “You have rings, I know you do. I’ve seen you wear them.” 

“Not any for my ring finger,” muttered Crowley, though he immediately undid his seatbelt and slithered in between the two front seats into the back to reach for one of his bags. Aziraphale glanced down and, finding his eyes full of a very pleasant view of a firm buttocks, hurriedly averted his gaze and pressed himself back into the seat, redirecting his attention to his lap instead and twisting his fingers together to keep his mind off of whatever else was within reach. 

“Well, we could improvise or--” His hands stopped their fidgeting for a moment - only enough to brush the edge of a familiar piece of metal. Right there - on his pinky. He became very still and then with deliberate slowness, twisted the signet ring around his knuckle and slipped it off. The worn gold glinted just slightly in the dim light of the car. It was too small to fit his own ring finger, but...

“Crowley,” he said. 

“Give me a second,” answered Crowley, arse still stuck in the air between the seats in the most tantalizing way possible. If he didn’t know any better, Aziraphale would have thought he was doing it on purpose. “All I’ve got is my old class ring - that’s got a stone in it. And my acrylic one, and the rest are silver. Oh, and this thumb ring but it’s--”

“Crowley,” insisted Aziraphale again, and cleared his throat meaningfully. “Darl-- Dear. Sit up for a moment.”

The man tensed and then slowly pushed himself up, dislodging the slender body from the gap to meet eyes with the other again. In the process of rummaging around in the bag he had pushed his shades up into his hair, and Aziraphale now had the privilege of seeing his eyes, which were far more unguarded than he had been prepared for. 

For a second his breath caught. Crowley looked... flustered. His pupils were dilated - although that was almost certainly from the fact that it was dark in the car itself. Surely it had little to do with what Aziraphale had very nearly called him. 

“Sorry,” he said immediately, feeling something coil hungrily in his own stomach. The proximity the car was forcing upon them was beginning to feel stifling. He had perfected his self-control over the years, but Crowley wasn’t exactly making it easy. “I just had an idea. Give me your hand.”

Swallowing audibly, Crowley slid back into his seat and held out his arm. A bridge across the empty void between them. There was barely even the sound of their breathing, yet Aziraphale thought he could hear the crackle of nervous energy, surging through him like electricity as he reached out. When had they last held hands? Memories of the walk back from the Garden swam back to him - blurry, almost completely smeared with the passing of time, but still intact. He had tried to heat Crowley’s freezing fingers up inside his own, and they’d laughed about it, made some sort of obscene joke that had led to a slow, gentle kiss. The first of many that had started that night.

Not that it would happen now, he knew. But still. It was a nice memory. Something he could hold on to. 

He pushed the thought to the back of his mind and gently slid his thumb over Crowley’s knuckles. In response, Crowley’s fingers twitched and curled around his own. The deepest human instinct - the one babies acquire in the earliest stages of their infancy - to grab. To hold. To pull closer. No amount of intent could be assigned to it - it was simply something that had been passed down through ancestry. A survival instinct. A biologically neutral reaction.

They both held still for a moment, until Aziraphale realized that he had been planning to do something - and that plan hadn’t been ‘sit there like a fool, holding Crowley’s hand’.

“Let’s-- let’s try this,” he forced out through the lump in his throat, and, nudging Crowley’s ring finger up just a bit, eased his own golden band over it. There was a gentle pushback at the bony knuckle but Aziraphale pressed forward, giving it a gentle twist, and it slid home.

Crowley shuddered. It wasn’t an obvious thing, but it was enough to yank Aziraphale’s eyes back up. “Is that,” asked Crowley, visibly struggling to remain very casual despite the strangely intense tone his voice was taking, “Is that an ecclas... Esscla... Ecclasiac...” He cleared his throat and seemed to give up. 

“Ecclesiastical,” said Aziraphale, pulling away hurriedly, wondering if his hands had overstayed his welcome. “And no. It’s a family heirloom, yes, but it’s just an antique that I kept for the aesthetic. The intent behind it is quite secular, don’t worry.”

“Wasn’t worried,” Crowley muttered thickly. “I haven’t burst into flames yet, so... can’t be that bad.” 

Aziraphale smiled. “It looks old, so it’ll do. I don’t need one - we can just say I’ve gained a bit of weight and it doesn’t fit me anymore. It’s true anyway.” He began to pull back and then stopped, realizing that despite having not said anything, Crowley’s right hand had been clenched into a fist on his knee the entire time. It seemed he was holding something in it. 

“Uh,” said Crowley eloquently. And then, as if to explain: “Ngk.”

“Yes?” said Aziraphale. He was more or less used to interpreting the man’s half-words after nearly a decade of listening to him stumble around massacring the English language into broken half-syllables and mangled consonant clusters. “Did you find another one? If you want to wear that instead, I understand.”

“No,” muttered Crowley and turned his fist over, unfurling his hand. In the middle of his palm lay a band. It wasn’t gold but instead dark metal - long and thin, twisting around once and then overlapping with itself. The details were worn thin, but the serpent head and tapered tail was evident, even from a distance. “Just... This.”

Aziraphale leaned forward. “Oh, your snake thumb ring,” he said. “That’s nice as well.”

“Mngh,” voiced Crowley, practically writhing with some sort of indecision. “I just-- I thought maybe-- no, forget it, it was a stupid idea.”

Aziraphale, observing him curiously now, reached out and plucked the elegant band from his hand. “Do you think it’s large enough to fit me? We could try, but--”

“No,” protested Crowley, and grabbed for him. For a second Aziraphale froze, unable to stop the icy cold pang of hurt at the way Crowley’s voice sounded, but before he could register any amount of self pity, Crowley had taken his left wrist and connected them together again. His palm was sweaty, grip clutching almost too hard. “No, I wanna... Wanna put it on you,” he finished, voice barely audible. 

The cold, stinging frost that had formed in Aziraphale’s chest from the previous moment of rejection didn’t bother to do the polite thing and melt. Instead it bypassed the liquid stage altogether and boiled directly into steam, heating him up from the inside and pushing the color into his face - into his ears, into his neck. He was certain that within moments of hearing those words, he was red as a tomato, with no defenses left to deny it. 

“O-oh,” he choked out.

“You put yours on me, so... so it would only be fair,” defended Crowley. It would have been more convincing if he wasn’t shivering like a leaf in autumn wind. “Besides, it’s. For authenticity’s sake.” The fingers on the wrist loosened and slipped under the palm instead, splaying the fingers.

“Authenticity,” repeated Aziraphale numbly. 

“Yeah,” said Crowley, edging the ring over the first tip of his knuckle. He kept talking, as if to distract the other from what was actually happening at all costs. “You know me. Big on romantic tropes. Might write this into my next short story. Had to see what all the fuss was about.”

“Fuss,” echoed Aziraphale, who was not capable of passing the Turing test in his current state. At last he succeeded in molding his face into something resembling amusement. As if he were amused. At this display of. Romantic tropes. “Yes, very fussy, you are. All about the tropes.”

“Well we do have everything we need right here. Rings. A Priest.”

“I’m not-- Even if I was, still, Catholicism--”

“Angel, humor me for a second,” Crowley said, though his voice held the faintest note of panic. The reason for it was revealed when Aziraphale looked down. The ring was stuck on the penultimate knuckle, and seemed to be resisting going any further. This brought about a newly redoubled bout of shivering - until he reached down and covered Crowley’s hand with his own. 

“You have to put a little more force into it,” he mumbled, and pressed his finger in until the metal was nested at the base. “There,” he said, ignoring the soft, barely-noticeable hiss of air escaping from between Crowley’s clenched teeth. “Is that enough of a trope for you? You may now kiss the--”

Crowley’s gaze snapped up and he hadn’t been fast enough in looking away, so their eyes met again. It was then, with a start, that Aziraphale realized that the whole time they’d been only a few inches apart. 

The planets had aligned, metaphorically speaking. The steady, looping orbit they’d been dancing around each other in lightyears of open space had drawn them closer again, enough for a glimpse into each other’s atmospheres as they passed by. The magnetism of it was undeniable, and the friction of their gravitational fields glancing off of each other in the consequent proximity was generating heat that threatened to burn them both. Close up, Crowley was just as ridiculously attractive as he had always been, face lined with barely noticeable traces of stress, the hint of stubble along the edge of his jaw, the sharp turndown of his nose. His lips, usually pulled taut with whatever ventriloquism he was prepared to put on for the sake of keeping up appearances, was slack for once, soft and open and - maybe this was Aziraphale’s wistful thinking - inviting.

The inner part of his repressed desire roared with outrage. How could he have gone so long without this? How could he fight against it? There was nothing but want inside of him, singeing his insides and clawing its way to the outside world, reaching for the man across from him. He wanted, he _needed_ \- Crowley to touch him like he needed air to breathe. To turn away now would be to sentence himself to death by yearning. 

Without thinking, he tilted his head to the side. The memory of their lips touching was six years old, and yet his body seemed to have no trouble recalling the movement required to angle his nose just a bit to the left in order to give Crowley room to move in and slot his mouth into--

_Knoc, knock, knock!_

“Oi!”

If it were humanly possible to jump out of his skin, Aziraphale would have. As it were, he had to settle for the much less dramatic equivalent of yanking himself back by an invisible fishing line, and mirroring the shocked, half-drunk expression Crowley was making at him from the opposite side of the car. They were completely still for a moment, and then the knocking came again - against the fogged up driver’s side window. 

After Crowley flailed his way through several pretzel-like shapes he managed to realize what was going on and slapped at the buttons on the side of the door to lower the glass. As the wall of condensation edged downward, it revealed what seemed to be the face of an older man, wrapped in a scarf and with a burly hat caked with heavy crusts of snow. 

“Mr. Fell?” grunted the man, eyeing the red-haired driver doubtfully. 

“Not yet,” muttered Crowley, and Aziraphale allowed himself, for an indulgent moment, to believe that his companion sounded put out about the fact that they had been interrupted, as if the name-change had been next on their agenda, shortly following the impromptu ‘ceremony’. 

“I’m Mr. Fell,” he said. It was incredible how composed he sounded, even while trying to shake off the intense embarrassment and shock of what had almost happened. The man in the window glanced at him and seemed to find this more believable. “Mr. Dowling?”

“Mr. Dowling is at the house,” said the man. “They sent me to look for you, since the storm was getting worse. Figgered you’d get turned around.”

“Ah, quite right,” said Aziraphale, sitting up and tugging on his waistcoat to get it back into shape. His fingers grasped for the ring on his pinky but, finding it bare, recalibrated their efforts on the new piece on his left hand instead. The smooth snake-scale texture was far less calming than he’d anticipated. It instead only served to remind him of what had just happened, threatening to recall the blush he’d been valiantly dodging. “We did get turned around, I’m afraid. Will we have to walk far?”

“Nah,” said the groundskeeper - for it appeared that’s what he was - and pointed vaguely behind them. “Just back up to that last turn and follow me. I put a lamp up for the driveway, should be easier to spot now.” 

“Thanks,” replied Crowley and then, without fully waiting for the other to turn away, began to roll the window back up again. Once it locked with a click, he looked back at Aziraphale for a brief second. His sunglasses were already back on over his eyes, a wall between whatever emotions may have been brewing just behind it. Just as quickly, he redirected his attention to the gear shift in order to put the Jeep into reverse. As his palm skimmed in a slow arc across the steering wheel, Aziraphale’s ring caught the light. 

_I shouldn’t, I can’t, I won’t,_ chanted Aziraphale to himself, staring relentlessly. Then, not without considerable effort, he tore his gaze away. 

It was going to be a long 11 days.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh, yes, the inherent homoeroticism of... *checks smeared writing on hand* ... putting rings onto each other in a Fake Marriage AU!
> 
> Thank you SO much for all your comments! I'm beyond thrilled to see that so many people are enjoying the story. I wish I could answer all of them, but it's taking me quite a long time, so please just know that I read and appreciate EVERY AND EACH ONE obsessively!!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Readers can have a little Crowley POV. :) As a treat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Real quick announcement: I have rewritten Chapter 3. Yeah, the sex chapter. If you go back and re-read it, it WILL be different. The reasoning behind it is that, after a long consideration I have decided that I didn't like the first scene I'd written it as. It didn't feel first-time-y. 
> 
> The original scene will be included at the end in the Deleted Scenes section which I will have a need for, because I keep doing this to myself. Sorry for the change! Hopefully that's not a disappointment to anyone.

* * *

Thaddeus Dowling was not a small man. 

He was also not a subtle man. His very existence appeared to be preoccupied by the task of taking up as much space as possible - both physically and mentally. Whether or not this was a conscious effort was a mystery, but Crowley had his suspicions that the behavior was a defense mechanism for what might have been an underlying fear that his presence, although large, was not altogether massive. 

Size and mass were not the same thing, after all. Mass required some amount of density, some level of substance to go in the void that filled the outer lines of an object. Dowling, thus far, had not given any reason to suspect that his incredible size was anything more than a cover-up for what was, in layman’s terms, a lot of hot air. 

Then again, it wasn’t completely unimpressive. After all, gas giants like Jupiter left quite an impression on other celestial objects despite their significant lack of density. One could spend hours arguing about the maths involved, and yet any idiot with a telescope could also point out that it was visibility that mattered to most people who stared at the night sky. 

Perhaps Dowling had figured this out early on. He utilized it to the best of his ability as he greeted them at the door, slightly damp from the snowfall, and then used his boisterous American voice to tell them, loudly, that they were later than expected - and had they “gotten lost?” Had they, perhaps, “forgotten how big America was”? 

No, they hadn’t, Crowley had wanted to tell him, there was a bloody snowstorm raging out there that they’d been caught in, and they’d still made good time despite it, you _blasted idiot_ , but Aziraphale, presumably knowing how such an exchange was bound to end, valiantly cut in before he could open his mouth and made some maddeningly polite excuse of stopping to get a bite to eat.

Harriet Dowling (significantly smaller, though containing much more substance than her husband) arrived then, rushing down the steps to greet them, and immediately joined Aziraphale in his task of talking about safe, uninteresting things like the weather and their suitcases and their accommodations, and so Crowley’s urge to fuck everything up was disabled for the time being. 

Just as well, he figured. It was way too early in the game to make a complete fool of himself. Why hurry on the inevitable? Might as well enjoy his stretch of luck as far as it carried him. 

“Your room,” Harriet Dowling told them, “will be in the West end of the cottage. It’s a ways away from the main part, but still connected. There’s its own separate bathroom there, and a small living space in the lower level. No kitchen, I’m afraid - that’s in the main part - but there’s a fridge! It’s a little more secluded. We didn’t want you to feel like you have to worry about privacy, staying in the same cottage as us.” She glanced between them meaningfully while in the background, her husband grew visibly uncomfortable with the implications of what the privacy would be used for. 

Aziraphale recovered relatively quickly - or perhaps he hadn’t caught on. “Oh, no, it’s absolutely lovely,” he assured, smiling his brilliant smile. “This place is-- rather much bigger than I anticipated, to be honest! I suppose it’s true what they say - everything really _is_ bigger in America.”

Thaddeus produced a hearty guffaw at this, and it seemed like the praise had steered him back into familiar territory. “Damn right,” he said. “This land was my grandfather’s - all 30 acres! - and I figured I’d better put it to use and build something proper on it. Thought of making this into an Inn. Guess you two are gonna be our first guests. That can be in the book,” he added, pointing to Aziraphale in a way that could be considered accusatory, were his manner not already evidenced to be mostly outlined by crudely friendly gestures. 

“No discussion of work yet,” announced Harriet. “Tonight, let’s just all enjoy a nice dinner and relax,” she added, and turned back to Aziraphale, grabbing his hands suddenly. “I have to admit, I was really nervous about meeting you. I’m a huge fan - and you can be sure I _will_ pick your brain, but I’ll be nice about it. For now, though, I think you’re tired and want to just collapse for a few hours, right?”

Aziraphale, who looked startled at the contact but managed to continue holding his smile through it all, replied with a soft laugh of agreement. 

“Good,” she announced. “The staff will show you to your room. Feel free to wander around as much as you like, but we will ask you both to join us for dinner around seven.”

Crowley glanced at his watch. 4:53PM. It wasn’t as much as ‘a few hours’ but it was better than nothing. 

As promised, a member of the staff took them through the spacious, wooden halls towards the left side of the ‘cottage’. Really, the word was not fitting for the building they were in. Although it seemed large from the outside, on the inside it was even larger, as though the snow had been hiding secret underground levels they hadn’t spotted on their way in. 

The upper floor stretched above them loft-style, and there was apparently an open space there for socializing - Crowley spied a billiard table. The lower level housed what could only be described as a hotel lobby, with twin fireplaces at each side of the quarters. As they headed past one of them, the hallway curved and took them into the side wing, which once more unfurled into a larger space. It wasn’t as big as the previous one, but there was definitely something that was a ‘living room’ here, complete with a dark-red couch by a tall window, as well as another fireplace. On a raised step in the far corner sat a handsome grand piano, its lid tightly shut. Crowley stood looking at it while the staff explained that the bathroom and bedroom were just up the stairs on the right. After mentioning that there was a phone in the room should they need assistance with anything, the woman smiled courteously and waddled away, leaving them alone once more.

“Are you alright?”

Crowley tore his gaze away from the piano and looked back at Aziraphale, whose forehead was already beginning to crease with the hint of worry lines. Unacceptable. 

In reply, he pushed his eyebrows up high enough to peek out over his glasses, hoping that would be enough to make the wordless question understood.

It was. “It’s just-- You haven’t said anything,” explained Aziraphale. “Since we--... got here.”

The unspoken gap was just large enough to fit the truth inside of it. _Since what happened in the car_.

Or rather, what _didn’t_ happen in the car.

“I’m just trying to keep from saying something idiotic, is all,” Crowley muttered. It wasn’t too much of a lie - at least not insofar as his plans to mitigate any further damage. He’d already had his fair share of being an idiot - a smitten, unthinking buffoon. Pretending like he’d had a chance, convincing himself he could somehow kiss Aziraphale, could have a taste of the forbidden fruit. Pretending that, for a brief moment, Aziraphale had looked as if he might kiss him back. “Figured... the less I say, the less risk there is.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale glanced away and around the room. “Right. Quite pragmatic of you. Well, let’s check the upstairs, shall we? She mentioned that they’d already brought our bags up there. We can unpack and take a small break before dinner.”

Stuffing his hands into his pockets, Crowley headed up after the other. There were only two doors there - and the first one he picked turned out to be a bathroom. It was modern, with cracked stone tiles and walls lined with stained wood, creating a rustic atmosphere. While he stepped one foot into the shower to toy with the foreign water controls, Aziraphale disappeared into the bedroom. Not for long - he reappeared almost immediately, startling Crowley into pushing his glasses back up into his hair. 

“Um,” said Aziraphale. His face couldn’t seem to decide on a shade of pink. “There’s... Uh.”

Straightening (but not too much) Crowley slinked out of the bathroom after him and entered the adjacent room. It was just as rustic as the bathroom, and on the dark, polished-wooden floor was what he hoped was a fake fur rug. Right beside it, poised in the center with the headboard against the far wall, was a bed piled high with knitted blankets. Next to the bed were his suitcases, and on top of them was Aziraphale’s singular tartan bag. There was a large floor to ceiling deck door that led out onto the balcony. It presumably had a nice view in the daytime, but was dark at the moment. 

Not finding anything amiss, he looked at Aziraphale again. The man was fidgeting with his ring - well, not his ring. Crowley’s ring. But he was fidgeting. 

“What?” asked Crowley, looking back at the room and trying to figure out what had specifically elicited such a strong reaction. 

“Nothing,” Aziraphale replied, though it was clearly not nothing, as he was now struggling to look around the room at a casual pace, carefully disguising whatever was bothering him. “Nothing at all. Just-- what do you think?”

Feeling stupider by the moment (what was he missing?) Crowley gave the space another survey. “Looks fine I guess. Might get a bit cold. Why?”

Aziraphale shook his head and turned to his bag, dragging it off of Crowley’s things and setting it down. “No, no, I’m just being silly. Don’t worry about it, dear.”

 _Dear_. A jolt of shock went through him at that, the same as it had the past 23 times Aziraphale had utilized the word. His heart, all at once an arrhythmic fool, a feral animal in its cage of ribs, banged loudly against his sternum. He curled inward, hoping to smother it back into silence.

“You must be tired.” The voice startled him back into consciousness - apparently Aziraphale had continued to talk, perhaps hoping to cover up the awkward atmosphere with a blanket conversation and pretend it wasn’t there. “You haven’t slept a wink and you’ve been driving-- Did you want to shower first? I’ll get my clothes sorted out meanwhile.”

Crowley craned his neck around to sniff at his own shirt. He probably smelled like a walking rubbish bin. Feeling the itch physically now, he backed up a few more steps towards the bathroom so that the aura of whatever stench he was housing would not assault the other. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Yeah, I’ll-- I’ll do that.” 

The solace he took in being alone under the spray of (shockingly well pressurized) water was short lived. There were pros of course - he could scrub himself clean and calm down. While he rubbed apple-scented suds into his neck, his fingers were busy enough pressing out the kinks in his muscles to avoid heading downwards. The hot water didn’t exactly help discourage the half-erection he was sporting, but he knew from past experience that he was better off leaving it alone. It got the wrong message from all this proximity to Aziraphale, but it was used to disappointment. It wasn’t like anything had happened, they’d just been in the car together... had exchanged rings and Aziraphale had slid his own ring onto--

“Fuck,” hissed Crowley, and tilted his face up into the scorching spray, rubbing his eyes vehemently. The image of Aziraphale’s slightly parted lips, his downcast eyes as he eased his finger into the ring Crowley had been holding, the turn of his wrist, that familiar motion, the absolute certainty behind it, spiced with the solid, single-minded determination - it was the same, soft strength that had brought Crowley to the edge over six years ago.

 _It wasn’t sexual, you absolute idiot_ , he thought to himself scathingly, but his prick hadn’t got the memo. Or maybe it had, but it had ignored it. Thrown it into the pile with all the other memos he kept sending it to give up, just give up - _nothing_ was going to happen! Not that it had stopped him before. Somewhere deep inside him was an optimist. He presumed that part mostly took residence in his nether regions to maximise the amount of grief it could give him any time he had the nerve to get close to the object of his affection. 

Better get it over with, he thought, and closed his eyes as he slid the pathetic, throbbing length into his own fist. Leaning against the shower wall on one elbow, he allowed his hips to jerk slightly into the pressure of his hand. The pretending was easy - he had more than enough to work with. Some of it was embellished, had become more decorative over the years. Sometimes his imagination added props or took them away to make the fantasy easier to deal with. Still, the underlying theme was the same - the same strain of the sick obsession that had plagued him since that very first and only night.

Aziraphale, Aziraphale, Aziraphale - his mouth, his weight, his hand clasping shut around Crowley’s eagerly crossed wrists, his thigh cutting between Crowley’s clenched knees, opening him up, pushing into him, cracking him apart and taking him, taking all of him as if he were something precious, something desirable, something to be hungry for--

It didn’t take long - he had already worked himself into a ridiculous, shuddering mess before the day had even started. Here, in the shower, high on the scent of Aziraphale’s warm cardigan and Aziraphale’s sharp eyes, his beautiful mouth forming the word _darling_ \- Crowley came within a minute, choking back all pathetic noises like a seasoned pro. 

Then he just stood there, breathing hard, bracing against the wall and forcing his thoughts back into a box and remembering how to function as if everything was fine, as if he wasn’t desperately, maddeningly whispering prayers to the curve of Azirphale’s thighs, as if he wasn’t counting off the ten colors that reflected in the man’s hair like the commandments. 

He was fine. He had to be. 

And then he turned off the shower, opened the glass door and realized that no, no he wasn’t fine. He was an idiot who had run into the bathroom without even bothering to grab a-- 

“You forgot your towel,” Aziraphale called through the door. 

Crowley threw back his head and groaned. Perfect. 

He was about to call back, say something like _Don’t worry, I’ll just use the little toilet rug_ , but before he could decide on a tone - dry or casual - the door opened and Aziraphale was suddenly there, more or less directly in front of him. 

“I’ll just leave it on the counter for when you’re fin--” He stopped, blinked once. The realization that Crowley _was_ finished - that he was standing a few feet away, stark naked, one foot out of the shower - seemed to finally hit him. For a good moment, Crowley waited for him to go red, to start stuttering, to back away and say something about ‘indecency’ or apologize.

Instead, Aziraphale swallowed him with his whole gaze, and licked his lips. 

It was barely even visible, just a half-second of a scope and the briefest sight of that pink tongue, but it was enough to hit Crowley like a freight train. He had to reach out a hand to steady himself on the corner of the shower to stop from toppling over, and then had to wrestle with his own tongue to fight back the urge to say something incredibly stupid like ‘see something you like?’

Thankfully, before he could open his damned mouth, Aziraphale visibly grabbed a hold of himself and turned away like the sight of Crowley had burned. He looked red enough in the face that it might have been true. 

“I’m--I’m sorry, I didn’t realize--” He fumbled for the door. “Thought the shower was still on, the noise from the pipes is louder in the-- I’ll just--”

Crowley yanked the towel off the counter, somehow reassured by the fact that he was not the only one incapacitated. It helped ground him, allowed him to think that perhaps he’d just imagined the hungry, lustful glimpse after all. 

“Nothing you haven’t seen before,” he muttered dismissively, unable to stop himself. 

Aziraphale froze in the doorway. His neck muscles jumped, as if he was physically stopping himself from turning around for a second look. He didn’t, but Crowley could have sworn he heard him mutter “worth turning into a pillar of salt over,” before he disappeared from the bathroom with a hurried slam of the door. 

Right. That’d happened.

By the time he had gone back into the bedroom (a full fifteen minutes later, including the time he’d taken to argue with himself that he did _not_ need another wank to get over how Aziraphale had stared) he expected it to be empty. Surely the logical step to running away from their problems would have been to escape downstairs and let Crowley dress in peace. Instead, Aziraphale was still there, but now focused pointedly on the drawers near the bed. He was stuffing them full of what Crowley assumed to be more frumpy sweaters and tartan-patterned socks. 

It seemed like he was setting a precedent of silence, so Crowley decided to follow his lead and walked over to the largest black suitcase to get something to wear - and discovered it already unzipped. 

Feeling his stomach drop, he reached down to flip the lid up. Everything looked neatly folded, tucked into precise alternating rows of shirts and dark-stained jeans.

Which was to say - the exact opposite of how he’d packed it. 

Behind him, Aziraphale cleared his throat. “My apologies,” he said. “I thought I could grab you a shirt for when you’d finished your shower. Didn’t mean to nose around.”

Already knowing what he had found, Crowley reached down and pulled the top black henley off of the pile, revealing the box of rubbers underneath it. His mouth was dry. He had known the wiser thing to do was to pack it down further. Why hadn’t he? Why was he so _stupid_?

“I--” His jaw unlocked, but no excuses spilled forth. He wasn’t sure which one was more appropriate. Full out denial? Or perhaps he could say he’d forgotten them from the last trip he’d gone on? Explain that he had merely got into the habit of carrying around a box? That was right up his alley for the image he tried so hard to paint over the fucked up reality of a touch-starved bastard he really was. “They’re not for--” He bit his tongue again. Not for what? Not for him? Not for Aziraphale? Why had he packed them? 

_Why had he packed while drunk?_ was perhaps a better question. 

“Balloon animals,” he choked out.

A brief silence stumbled into the room, looked around, and then careened right back out again. 

“Balloon animals?” echoed Aziraphale. The tint of his voice hinted at a smile. “Really.” 

“Though I’d try a new hobby.” Crowley bit his tongue and resisted the urge to grab fistfuls of his own hair. _Balloon animals?! Of all the stupid--_

“What are you going to make? A snake?” Aziraphale’s slow, steady shuffling in the dresser started up again and the tension eased somewhat. “Good lord, Crowley, you don’t have to explain yourself to me. It’s not as if we’re--”

The silence returned once more. It was a different one this time, and it overstayed its welcome. Aziraphale’s shoulders hunched, bearing the brunt of it. 

_Don’t say it_ , Crowley begged inside his own head. He didn’t want to let go of the fairytale. They’d never said it out loud, had never dismissed the possibility outright. Maybe that’s what had kept him clinging on to that last, impossible sliver of hope. Maybe it was what possessed him to throw the rubbers into the suitcase, as if something could still happen.

It wouldn’t, he knew. But he needed something to keep him complacent. Some placebo, fake as it was, to keep the feverish compulsion at bay. 

“Balloon animals,” he repeated, grabbed a pair of jeans and shut the top of the suitcase. 

And then they went to dinner. 

* * *

“So, I was thinking,” said Thaddeus Dowling.

 _Shocking_ , Crowley wanted to reply, but said nothing. He wished someone would give him some sort of prize for how much self-control he was exerting, but he was certain that his efforts would go unnoticed. Still, he had agreed to it. And it was for Aziraphale’s sake, which was enough to hold him in line. 

Anyway, Aziraphale was busy with Harriet Dowling a few feet away - she had successfully recruited his attention for some animated discussion about book clubs five minutes earlier, which meant Crowley alone was responsible for holding down the fort at this side of the table.

“Nn?” he voiced, glancing at the man to his left, attempting to summon some iteration of genuine interest and failing spectacularly. 

“Dunno the politically correct way of saying this, never really talked with one of your... types... before,” prefaced Dowling - really, rather kind of him, Crowley thought venomously, since it gave him time to brace for the next slew of stupidity - and asked: “Which one of you is the wife?”

Crowley shifted his lower jaw imperceptibly to the side, biting his tongue. He had not braced hard enough.

 _The year of our lord, two thousand thirteen_ , he thought to himself in awe. It was a bloody shame the church denied the existence of fossils so vehemently when they could just as easily hop across the pond and find them sat at this very table, disapprovingly staring down Crowley’s painted nails.

Before he could recover and find some way to answer which wouldn’t start a fistfight over the dish of baked potatoes between them, Harriet Dowling homed in on her husband like a hunting dog as if she could smell the oncoming storm. 

“ _Thaddeus_!” she scolded. 

Aziraphale followed her gaze with mild curiosity, clearly having not heard the question.

It was better to keep it that way - that singular goal was enough to spur Crowley back into the ability to speak. “No, it’s alright,” he said with what was, frankly, a herculean effort. “Rookie mistake. Don’t worry, questions are good. Everyone can stand to learn something when questions are involved.” 

Looking unsure, Harriet glanced between them. “Maybe we should let you two lead instead,” she decided finally. “I’m sorry, we’ve been completely ignoring you, Ashtoreth.”

“You can just call me Ash.” 

“Why the glasses?” interrupted Mr. Dowling with all the subtlety expected of him. He was clearly put out on the fact that his previous question had been more or less ignored.

“It’s a medical condition,” replied Crowley. Seeing the wife begin to look guilty in turn, he hurried to add; “No, no, don’t worry, ‘m not sensitive about it. I know it unnerves most people. Just have bad eyes is all. They’re prescription.”

“They make you look very cool,” she told him, and he turned up one corner of his mouth changing his grin into something more habitual. 

“Compliments will get you nowhere, Mrs. Dowling; I’m a happily married man.”

She laughed, but Crowley was already busy glancing at Aziraphale, who had dropped his gaze and picked up the glass of wine in front of his plate. Did he look... upset? Nervous? Was Crowley just letting his overactive imagination run wild again?

“You aren’t allowed to be married yet, aren’t you?” interjected Dowling from the side again. “Over in England, I mean.”

Crowley slowly turned back to him. “Legally speaking, no. Not yet.”

“But marriage is about more than just a document from the government,” added Aziraphale. He was still holding his own wine glass, but he seemed to have recovered from whatever mild discomfort had accosted him earlier. Instead there seemed to be a spark in his eye that Crowley was well familiar with. “There’s benefits to marriage, of course, but it’s not as if marriage itself is only real after the signatures are collected. There’s coexistence, partnership... romance.”

He was quieter as he said the last part - or maybe Crowley was imagining it again. Aziraphale wasn’t wrong, of course, and that’s why it stung so badly. Why his heart ached in his chest, reaching through the bars of its prison for things it could not have. 

But no - he couldn’t be greedy. They were partners in their writing. That had to be enough. It had been up until now - he rationed it well. Learned to live with scraps.

Feeling an itch in his throat to say something idiotic that he would surely regret, he reached for his own wine glass, knocking the rest of it back like a shot. Thankfully, no one seemed to notice.

“That’s true, I suppose,” Thaddeus allowed, looking reluctant to be agreeing with something that clearly drew hairline cracks in his fragile worldview. “Speaking of marriage, Fell, if I recall correctly, you used to be a priest?” He leaned on the table with both elbows, as contemplative as a boulder of his size could hope to look.

“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale replied, turning his gaze towards his food. “For quite some time, in fact. I finished seminary and was ordained, and served the catholic church for a number of years before deciding that I wanted to commit myself to God through... other means.”

“Is a man really a man of God if he leaves the church? Isn’t the church the house of God?” 

Harriet Dowling appeared ready to graduate from throwing glares to throwing cutlery, but Aziraphale remained unbothered - serene as ever, looking down with a small, knowing smile as he gently cut into the filet mignon posed in the middle of the huge white dish. 

“A man does not cease to be a man when he leaves his house,” he said quietly. “Churches are lovely things, but assigning them transformative power over believers takes away from the burden of humanity to build their own houses for God to reside in - inside their hearts.”

Thaddeus hummed. Crowley could practically see the loading bar poised over his head - he doubted it would ever make it past 30% anytime this decade. He reached for his own fork and dug it eagerly into the potatoes on his plate. 

At least, until Harriet decided that the tension had been sufficient. “Ash,” she said, leaning towards him. “If you don’t mind me asking - what about your profession?”

Crowley glanced up at Aziraphale and then back down at his forkful of potatoes for inspiration. “Lawyer,” he said with as much conviction as he could. “I deal with... copyright cases, mostly. For books. Magazines. That stuff.”

“Oh,” she said, looking much how he felt inside. “That sounds... kind of boring, to be honest. Have you always been interested in law?”

“Nngh, no,” admitted Crowley, who had been Googling ‘What do lawyers actually do?’ through most of his flight to the states. He was prepared to ad lib his way out, but this was new territory and he had to tread carefully. He decided to throw a red herring instead. “Used to be in theology too.” He chewed the potatoes and set down his fork, trying to measure out the amount of information to give like he was preparing a very volatile recipe.

“He double majored,” inserted Aziraphale. Crowley had just enough time to catch a strange smile flickering across his face, paired with a restless wiggle - the kind that Aziraphale did when he was pleased with something. He couldn’t, for the life of him, think of what might have spurred it on. “In astro-physics. Took night classes.”

Predictably enough, Harriet frowned in confusion. “Can you do that?” she asked. 

“Technically no. It wasn’t really a sustainable goal,” Crowley replied, fighting the urge to deny everything and sacrifice their cover story for the sake of not melting into a puddle of humiliation. Was Aziraphale trying to kill him?! Why did he sound so bloody genuine? Why did he bring up that stupid fact in the first place? “But sleep is for the weak, am I right? Anyway,” he added, feeling his cheeks begin to burn. “It didn’t work out in the end. I quit both of them cold turkey and... Went to law school instead.” At the very least this version was cleaner than what had actually followed.

“Theology and Astro-physics to Law?” she said, awed. “You must be some sort of genius. I had a hard enough time with just one degree!”

“He’s brilliant,” said Aziraphale, and this time he definitely did look satisfied. Or was it... pride? Was Aziraphale - Satan forbid it - proud of him? Of his stupid resume? Was he _bragging_?! Crowley felt the burn spread to his entire face, and to his horror realized he must have been going red. “When he puts his mind to it, that is. Instead of forgetting it on the bedside table in the morning,” Aziraphale added, evidently taking pity. 

Crowley grasped for the lifeline chance to bicker. Anything was better than suffering on the receiving end of compliments. “It’s only because I’m lost in your eyes every morning, angel,” he said, injecting as much sappy sweetness into his voice as he, himself, could stomach. 

Aziraphale’s lips quirked up but he said nothing. Harriet was stretching out of her seat, looking more and more curious by the second. She shared a look with her husband which Crowley didn’t quite know the meaning of, but apparently it signaled a change of topic because a moment later they were all engaged in some sort of story about Thaddeus’ recent trip down to Washington DC and the conversation had been once more smoothed over. 

This continued for a while - until they finished the main course and carrot cake, topped with a hearty dollop of whipped cream, was distributed in american-sized plates. The dessert put Aziraphale back into the best of his moods, so Crowley was able to once again lean back in his chair and field questions from Thaddeus who had decided to try out a bit of tact on for size. His interrogative tactics evolved from crude prehistoric presumptions with sex and gender into a slightly more palatable mideval variety of sexism and homophobia. In between that he did his best to pretend normal conversation, adding ‘where did you meet?’ and ‘do you read his books too?’ to the mix, although the classic ‘I’ve heard you gay men aren’t very discerning about having a bit of fun on the side - is that true?’ did crop up eventually. 

The latter of these inquiries finally pushed Crowley into the territory of an irritated scowl, and he let Thaddeus know, in no uncertain terms that he and Aziraphale were exclusive in a quiet, growling voice.

Then he pushed back his chair, played the jet-lag card and excused himself from the table. Aziraphale glanced after him worriedly and promised to retire soon as well, but Crowley merely waved him away with a dismissive mutter of ‘no, no, have fun Angel, I’m just turning in early tonight’. 

The problem, he thought to himself morosely as he climbed the stairs up to the bedroom, was that it was true. At least, broadly speaking. At least on his side. He had been faithful - for six bloody years - to a non existent relationship, the ghost of a promise of something that could be. 

It hadn’t been on purpose at first. He’d tried to forget, tried to put Aziraphale out of his mind. A few months following their shag, when it became evident that Aziraphale wasn’t going to respond to his texts and his emails, he tried to distract himself by going to clubs, tried to even start to make out with a few lone souls behind the wall at the bar. Tried to go through the motions of finding an empty stall to go into, tried to remember how he’d liked dropping to his knees and taking a stranger’s cock into his mouth. Tried to feel excited by the motions of sliding up against the woman at the bar and feeling her guide his hand up her skirt. 

But the problem was - he couldn’t. He was no longer interested in anything that had previously offered him those brief respites from the aching loneliness in his chest. That single night with the man had ran him over like a freight train, crushing all higher functions aside from ‘mope’ and ‘sigh’ and ‘stare out the window like a repressed regency era maiden waiting for a single man in possession of a good fortune to drive by the estate’. 

And worse yet - when he wasn’t pining or yearning or pacing around his flat holding his phone, wondering ‘should I send another email?’, he was busy fucking his own fist, or clenching around his own fingers, with a single word clanging around the edges of his mind, branded into the back of his skull: _Darling._

It hadn’t been the word. It’d been the way Aziraphale had breathed it into him - like Crowley was a dessert he was about to eat, like Crowley was something precious and sexy and absolutely irresistible. 

Except, of course, that he wasn’t. 

Aziraphale had no trouble resisting him. In fact, those few brief moments after they’d started to spend time together again and Crowley thought he could catch glimpses of the man tracing his profile with his eyes, or staring at his backside - those were not hard and fast evidence. No move had been made. No indication of any leftover desire given. 

And yet Crowley remained faithful. 

It wasn’t because of morals, no, that had nothing to do with it. He had little time for morals. Instead it was the same thing as before - selfishness. Greed. Pointing to something he couldn’t have and screaming and stomping his feet and collapsing to the floor in a fit of tears, refusing any alternatives. 

_If I can’t have that one, I’ll have nothing at all!_

Nothing admirable about that. He was just a child. 

Just as well, then, that the universe had responded to his pleas with a stern smack on the back of his head and dragged him out of the store empty-handed.

* * *

“You said you quit.”

The voice jumped him from behind, and even though he should have seen it coming, he still flinched and fumbled for the lighter in his hands. It bounced off of the railing of the balcony he had been standing on and, miraculously, back into his hands. He clutched it harder, trying not to shiver against the bitter December wind.

“I did,” he said around the incriminating cigarette in his mouth, not turning around. He could see the shadow on the frosted surface of the balcony floor - haloed by the warm, golden glow filtering in from their room. He knew how Aziraphale stood in order to make that shadow. Shoulders tensed, hands drawn together. His silhouette was lumpy; perhaps he was wearing a sweater. Good on him - it was too bloody freezing. Crowley was already regretting ducking out for nicotine. “Just been a hell of a day,” he added as a pathetic excuse. 

“Can’t argue with that.” Aziraphale shut the door, stepped closer and finally came into view on his right side. Crowley had been correct about the sweater - it was one of many, a light grey cardigan. It wasn’t as thick as the jacket he himself was currently hiding inside, but then again, Aziraphale did resist the cold better. He tried to lean on the railing for a moment, but immediately pulled his hands away with a shiver. It was completely frozen over, and even after clearing away some of the snow there was a thick layer of ice underneath. 

“At least it stopped snowing,” he remarked. “Quite a chill, though.”

“What did I tell you about America?” Crowley reminded him. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Aziraphale turn his head to regard him and then, a second later, a hand was reaching up to his face. Crowley, predictably enough, became very still - a freeze which had nothing to do with the temperature - but the fingers ghosting his face merely tugged the cigarette hanging from his lips free. “Hey,” he muttered. “That’s mine.”

“We’re sharing it,” Aziraphale told him. Checking to see that it was still unlit, he pivoted slightly to the other. “Light please.”

Crowley’s pathetic excuse for a stomach flipped in excitement. Did Aziraphale remember he liked being ordered around? Did Aziraphale know what he was doing to him with that voice, that soft but sturdy tone? Or was it merely a coincidence, a lucky bone cast to him - the starving stray - to hold him over for another winter? 

It didn’t matter, he thought firmly, and reached over to flick the lighter, cupping his hand around it. Aziraphale leaned in and his soft platinum hair lit up a deep, sunset orange as the flame danced between them. 

Then the moment was over. Cigarette now live, Aziraphale leaned back and took a practiced drag. 

“Awful,” he remarked, pulling it out with a very dainty, two-fingered grip and examining it critically.

“Organic tobacco,” Crowley said. “Way less rat poison.”

Aziraphale snorted, but he passed the cigarette to him all the same. “I thought you would have gone to sleep.”

“Nngyeah... Time difference got me all sorts of fucked up,” Crowley grit out, gently placing his lips on the spot where Aziraphale’s own had just been moments ago. _Don’t think about it, don’t think about it._ “Couldn’t focus, and remembered I had this thing tucked away somewhere in the suitcase... Emergency stash, you know. I actually did quit.” He exhaled a long string of white smoke and watched it dissipate into the open sky, which was now more or less clear. If it hadn’t been too bloody cold to hold his eyes open, he would have enjoyed stargazing here. No lights from any human settlements reached the deep woods - they were a blanket of complete silence laid out underneath a stretching expanse of the cosmos. Not even five minutes and he was already seeing the scattering of stars that dotted out the main of the Milky Way as it spilled from the horizon and disappeared over his head. 

Aziraphale took another drag beside him and coughed, but didn’t seem eager to surrender.

“How was the rest of the social?” asked Crowley. “You came back earlier than I expected. Did Mr. Dowling not show you his taxidermy room?”

“No, thank God,” said Aziraphale. “I ducked out as quickly as I could after you left. Gave them some excuse about how I wanted to re-adjust my circadian rhythm. I almost expected Mr. Dowling to ask me what cicadas had to do with sleeping.”

Crowley chortled. “Poor sod. You really went in on him over the marriage thing. I thought I’d have to hold you back. Or at least confiscate a few knives before you jumped over the table.” A peek at Aziraphale confirmed that the other was smiling quietly. “Though I suppose I didn’t do much better at pretending to play nice. He didn’t even seem to care. Kept asking questions like he couldn’t even see me trying to choke on the cake on purpose.”

At this, Aziraphale went oddly quiet, pensive even. He took the cigarette when Crowley passed it back to him but didn’t return it to his lips, instead gazing out at the snowy landscape before them with just the barest hint of a frown that started between his eyebrows and then trickled down to the corner of his lip, pulling at it. 

“What?” said Crowley. “You’re thinking something. What is it?”

Aziraphale shook his head absently. “No, nothing. Just thinking about the questions they were asking, I suppose.”

“You reckon they suspect it’s fake?” asked Crowley.

“The marriage?” Aziraphale asked. “Why would they? They invited us here.”

“Yes, but they were trying to call your bluff, isn’t that what you said? Maybe they didn’t consider the possibility you would actually turn up with me in tow.” 

Aziraphale was standing very still, holding the cigarette between his fingers, and the smoke was billowing gently upwards. “Hm,” he said in that reserved way he had when the gears in his head were spinning fast enough to power the Bentley. “That is true. Mr. Dowling hardly seems the type to be curious about the love life of two men.”

Crowley snorted. “But then again, _if_ that were true,” he argued, purely for the sake of his own curiosity, “they would probably ask about our relationship in general. The things he was talking to me about - it wasn’t exactly stuff that would authenticate anything.”

“No, you see that’s the thing,” pointed out Aziraphale, gesturing away the smoke with an unexpected burst of energy. “They would expect us to have our story straight--” He paused when Crowley snickered, made a face and then allowed an amendment, “Fine, have our story _gay_ \- but they would not expect us to be prepared for a deeper interrogation, so to speak.”

“And you think they’re... what... mining for specific details? Anything that we might not have prepared an answer to?” 

“Precisely, my dear. Harriet - after dinner, before desserts, I asked to see where the kitchen is, to wash my hands. She followed after me, and while she was explaining to me about the cake, she started to ask me questions.” Aziraphale’s eyes were alight now, sharp and clear with no hint of sleep or exhaustion in them. “But they were questions about you! Where you’d grown up; why you’d quit the Astro-Physics route... I believe she was trying to get me to make something up on the spot, so she could then compare it against whatever you might say!”

Crowley gifted him a dubious glance. “To go through all that trouble just to discredit the author they’re hoping to make a book deal with? Seems overkill, no?”

“They _are_ Americans, Crowley,” Aziraphale said. “Overkill is kind of their thing.”

“Can’t argue with that,” Crowley muttered, plucking the abandoned cigarette from Aziraphale’s hand. “So what do you propose we do about it?”

No answer seemed to be forthcoming. In fact, Aziraphale looked almost comically lost, as if all the steam he’d been building up from his sleuthing and building a hypothesis to the promise of a mystery had no place to go. “Oh... nothing, I suppose.” He deflated. “It’s not as if we can predict what they’ll ask. Though I think I can field most questions about you.”

“I daresay I can do the same,” Crowley agreed.

“We _have_ known each other for nearly ten years now,” Aziraphale pointed out, and then grew quiet. “Not really that... surprising.”

Crowley shivered and took another drag. No, it really wasn’t surprising. Unless Aziraphale had other friends he was hiding somewhere in the back of his bookshop, Crowley was his longest-known acquaintance. Even without the farce of their ‘marriage’ they were probably the two best equipped people to play these roles. It was ironic, really. Or not, depending on how you viewed the way Crowley had jumped on his opportunity like a heat-drunk man in the middle of the desert, finally discovering an oasis. 

But no, it wasn’t an oasis, really, was it? More like a mirage. He had been wandering for a great deal longer than 40 days. And he was delirious enough with need to be ill equipped to identify what was and wasn’t a hallucination.

In sharp contrast to the metaphor he was weaving in his head, the sub-zero temperatures were doing a good job of turning his facial muscles into a solid block of ice. Moving his jaw was already difficult enough, and he almost didn’t notice the knuckles on his cheek until it was too late. And then it was too late - Aziraphale was pulling his hand away as quickly as he’d made contact. 

“You’re freezing,” he scolded. “This is why quitting smoking was always a better idea. Put that thing out and get inside - and don’t you _dare_ toss it! Give it to me.” He grabbed the cigarette which Crowley was thoroughly putting to shame by the plumes of smoke that were surely coming out of his ears. He felt none of the cold of the night at that moment. 

It was good that he didn’t have to walk of his own accord - Aziraphale grabbing his arm and dragging him back into the room was the only force in the universe that might have moved him from the stupor he was in. Thankfully, the other didn’t seem nearly as incapacitated. He had already bustled off to the bathroom, presumably to soak their incriminating nicotine and then wrap it in a paper towel. 

Alone now, Crowley took the time to snap himself out of it and look at his bag. It probably contained something he could pass for pajamas. He typically slept in his underwear, but that was a bit of a stretch seeing as he and Aziraphale were going to have to share a--

The thought hit him like a meteor - a very effective Extinction Event for what remained of his brain-cells. 

Oh. 

_Oh fuck._

As if sensing the mental breakdown, Aziraphale popped his head around the door. “What’s the matter?” he asked.

Only then did Crowley realize he’d spoken the words out loud. He looked over his shoulder, and then looked back at the object of his shock and then said, in an undignified voice: 

“Aziraphale, there’s only one bed.”

Aziraphale turned pink, but it was a recycled blush, one that’d been well-worn and lost its color in the wash. “Yes,” he said. “I was wondering when you’d notice.”

“That’s why you were-- That’s why you--”

“Don’t worry,” said Aziraphale. His voice was hurried, like he was trying to put a plaster on something that was still bleeding. “You can take it. I’ll take the armchair, or just go to the couch downstairs.”

“ _What?_ ”

“You know I have trouble sleeping,” he continued, looking, for some reason, down at the ground as he came around the corner and began to go through his own luggage in search of something. “My schedule’s all askew since I managed to catch a nap in the car. I’ll just read instead.” 

“You can read _in the bed !”_ Crowley protested. 

The hands yanking random things out of the tartan bag stilled for a long moment. “You wouldn’t mind?”

“ _Mind?_ ” demanded Crowley, offended. _Mind what, fulfilling my most E-rated fantasy?_ he thought incredulously. “Aziraphale we’ve--” His brain slammed the breaks. Just barely. “We... have to convince them we’re married, don’t we? It’s a big bloody bed, I’ll just stay on my own side and you can... You can read. Or do whatever you want.”

 _Please, please do whatever you want_ , begged his brain in the throes of a spasm, presumably from lack of oxygen. _To me. Do whatever you want to me_. He was forgetting to breathe. This was stupid. Aziraphale would never agree anyway, he’d--

“Alright,” agreed Aziraphale. 

Crowley bargained with his knees not to buckle. In the process, he lost his knack for multitasking and his throat buckled instead, letting out a pathetic, desperate noise that sounded approximately like ‘Ngghsssk.’

“Go to bed, then,” said Aziraphale, who did not seem the least bit concerned, at least not from his tactical position of not showing his face. “I’ll have to take a shower and brush my teeth first.”

Some primal part of Crowley - whatever cockroaches were left in his head that had survived the meteor from earlier - moved his limbs for him. It was easier once Aziraphale had ducked back out of the room and left him alone. Easier to pretend nothing was amiss. He was just pulling on an old band shirt and trackies, he was just falling into bed, he was just yanking the covers up on his side... and staring longingly at the other pillow. 

Presumably at some point, Aziraphale would return. He might be wearing less ( _please let him be wearing less_ ), he might slide in under the covers, merely a few feet away. He might shift his head on the pillow, each one of those damned perfect curls pressing up against the soft coffee-creamer colored cotton. He might even leave his pajama top unbuttoned, leave his throat uncovered, might be close enough for Crowley to reach out and touch him, or to at least run his eyes along the curves of that plush neck, where the softness hid an undeniable cord of muscle in his shoulder. If he played his cards right, he could pretend to be asleep and instead watch the other through his lashes, could remember how that skin had tasted under his tongue. How those thighs had given under the press of his fingers, how that stomach had trembled as Aziraphale pushed his cock into Crowley’s throat, holding back, controlling it all with precise, unforgiving motions and...

And fuck, now he was hard again.

“Christ,” he hissed under his breath, and rolled over, grinding down into the mattress once. Once. That was all he was allowed before he had to calm the fuck down and get a grip on his overactive imagination. How many times could he replay that memory in his head before the tape wore into dust? Something had to give, it couldn’t last forever. Six years was already pushing it for how vivid the image remained in his mind. 

Before he could summon the nerve to imagine Dowling’s taxidermy collection in hopes of discouraging any further reactions, the bedroom door clicked open and his eyes, on reflex, fell shut. Aziraphale stepped into the room, paused, and then began shuffling around beside his bag quietly. The fact that he was doing his best to tiptoe around made it clear he had presumed Crowley to be asleep. A part of him was thrilled at this - the first step to his perfect plan was complete - but he was turned away from the other, facing the window, which meant that he couldn’t exactly do any spying save for his chance to utilize the dark, reflective surface of the glass.

Currently it showed the man crouched over his bag, picking out books he’d brought along with him. Eventually Aziraphale stood and edged back over towards the bed and leaned over it. The man’s heart hammered ecstatically in response, almost lodging in his throat. It was a miracle the other didn’t notice. And he didn’t, because he pulled back again with a very soft, satisfied hum, lifted up his side of the covers and climbed in. The wood creaked softly as it accepted his weight, and Crowley felt an echoing groan somewhere in his stomach. He was so close - almost close enough to touch! Judging by the reflection in the window, Aziraphale was indeed reclining against the headboard. Then he shifted - pulled up one of the pillows and made a back rest for himself. Then he shifted again, the motion reminiscent of the wiggle he was so prone to, as if getting comfortable. 

It took a while, and perhaps if Crowley wasn’t a completely lovesick fool he would have thought it annoying how much movement was going on behind him. Instead, he was ecstatic - every shift of the covers, every drag of the blanket on his back felt like a direct touch. They were arguably no closer than they always were - Crowley was at least a foot away. But he still felt the heat radiating from those beautiful thighs somewhere behind his head, still mutely reveled in the idea that only a layer of fabric separated his lips and tongue from that lush skin.

He would never be able to sleep in this state, but that was fine. Aziraphale idly paged through his book and settled in to read and Crowley steadied his breathing and felt his chest grow warm and full of some sort of sappy happiness he would have sworn he was allergic to a week ago. He had no idea what time it was, or how long he stayed like that - almost entirely still, shifting only sometimes to give his pretend-sleep an element of natural dreaming. It could have been minutes or it could have been hours. The fact was insignificant in the context of what happened next.

At some point, Aziraphale flipped a page, sighed contently, and then reached down - and placed his hand on Crowley’s hair. 

Immediately, in what was his most regretted decision that entire night, Crowley stopped breathing.

Perhaps if it hadn’t been ridiculously quiet in the room, the change would have gone unnoticed. As it was, Aziraphale’s fingers tensed and began to withdraw in a much more hurried manner than they had arrived. It was a damned tragedy, and Crowley was just about ready to swear out loud at himself for making the mistake. His tongue turned unwillingly in his mouth like a swollen slug and he rolled his shoulder up to flip over - but before he could make the full pivot, his back pressed against something blissfully soft and warm. 

Aziraphale’s hip. He’d been so much closer than Crowley had thought. He hadn’t planned this far - and the contact made him melt immediately, forget his entire plan and instead sink into the plush thigh against him, eyes still closed jaw falling slack. 

He must have looked like he was asleep, because Aziraphale froze above him, waiting... waiting... waiting... 

And then, it seemed the higher power he so vehemently cursed out on the daily decided to play a joke and grant his wish because that wonderful, warm hand was placed back on his head. Fingers gently threaded into Crowley’s hair. 

It took every single one of his remaining 8 brain-cells to not do anything else stupid. He stayed still, concentrating all the CPU available to keeping his breathing steady and pretending to be as asleep as he possibly could. It got easier the longer this went on - Aziraphale kept stroking, sometimes scratching against the scalp lightly, and Crowley dissolved into primordial goo with every ministration, every light brush. 

He didn’t remember falling asleep, but he knew with absolute certainty that when it happened, he was the happiest and most relaxed he’d been in years.

* * *


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let the Fake-Marriage begin... and may luck be ever in your favor.

* * *

The morning of the second day at the Dowling ‘cottage’ came a bit too early - Aziraphale woke around five and found that he couldn’t go back to sleep no matter how long he lay still and counted imaginary sheep. That trick had never worked anyway; ever since he’d been young he always got preoccupied with the question of why the sheep were there, and who was watching them, and then began to count imaginary sheep herders instead, which always progressed into thinking about Jesus somehow, which always became an issue of conceptualizing a historically accurate Jesus, which further dissolved the attempt at restfulness. 

After an hour of an imaginary argument about an old translation squabble that had involved the book of Hewbrews and a long and winded explanation of the evolution of language to a very disinterested priest (who had actually existed and had, in reality, eventually won the argument through sheer tenacity to misunderstand Azirahale’s desperate explanations ), the tried and true method of getting himself worked up did the job of waking him completely. He opened his eyes and turned his head to look at the body stretched out next to him. 

Crowley was fast asleep - properly asleep this time. The question of whether or not he’d actually been asleep last night was still up in the air. Aziraphale had at first thought he was - and had made the mistake of reaching out to tentatively bridge the contact between them. It was selfish. He’d just thought he might be able to get away with it. It had been so long since he’d touched that soft hair. But Crowley had tensed, and for a moment Aziraphale feared that this whole time, he had actually been quite conscious. It seemed like something Crowley would do to avoid making him feel awkward about sharing the bed. 

Which Aziraphale had to admit was silly. He hadn’t actually minded, was rather thrilled, in fact, although he obviously couldn’t admit as much, lest it be mistaken for some sadistic thrill he was taking in Crowley’s discomfort at their proximity.

Despite this worry, the fact that Crowley had rolled back into his thigh and pressed up against him like a cat made Aziraphale almost entirely certain he had been asleep. Maybe. Possibly. 

He certainly hadn’t protested when Aziraphale started playing with his hair again. And if he hadn’t been asleep at that point, he most definitely was already deep into a dream when he pressed his face to Aziraphale’s thigh, mumbled ‘fucking ducks...’ and proceeded to drool on Aziraphale’s pajama bottoms for the next half an hour.

The levels of not-minding Aziraphale had hit at that moment were off the charts. He gave up on his book and instead dedicated his full attention to watching Crowley’s face fondly, tracing every familiar line, smushed as it was against his hip, committing it to memory. 

But all things had to end. Sometime around 1 in the morning Crowley had finally rolled away and Aziraphale, now free to move about as he pleased without disturbing his bed partner, sank into the marshmallowy mattress and did his best to get some shut-eye. 

At the moment Crowley was still on his own side and although he had curled back towards Aziraphale there was a remaining gap between them that neither dared breach a second time around. 

The temptation was making him consider it, though, so to keep his hands busy he rolled over to pick up his phone, scrolling through several emails from fans before checking if there were any new messages from Gabriel. There indeed were - but mostly it was reminders to be careful and not post anything on social media that might tip off his location. Photos featuring Crowley were, of course, out of the question, and photos with the Dowlings were also to be kept private. This was - as Gabriel put it - to be on the down low. Just because the American Diplomat was evidently fine with his sexuality didn’t mean it had to get out to the general public. 

Nothing about this was surprising, but Aziraphale couldn’t help but feel a sting of frustration in the old wound he carried around. He had been nothing but careful for the past 6 years. Why was Gabriel still convinced he was going to botch everything up? 

He turned his head, looking once again at Crowley. The lax arch of his brows and softly parted lips painted a picture of absolute vulnerability that was a rare sight. 

It was still dark outside, but now the edges of the trees in the window had begun to glimmer with the faintest hint of dawn. Little by little the sun edged up across the forest, tickling the evergreens just enough to paint them a lovely gold while keeping the contrast of their dark branches under fresh coats of snow. 

The snow itself was so much brighter than he imagined. As the minutes ticked past, the light spilled over into their room, sneaking across the floor and climbing into bed with them. It shied around Crowley’s shoulders and then splashed into Crowley’s hair, setting it alight in a beautiful burning amber hue.

Before he knew what he was doing, Aziraphale was angling his phone, thumb over the shutter button. _Fuck Gabriel and his rules_ , he thought with a shocking edge. 

Of course, it was easy to snap the photo. It was more difficult to then reconcile taking it while Crowley wasn’t even conscious. Lying to Gabriel was one thing. Taking advantage of Crowley’s inability to protest the picture for the sake of his own twisted fantasies was... quite something else. 

He gazed forlornly at the image for a few moments and his finger hovered over the delete button. It was really for the best to just get rid of it... Even if the photo _was_ incredibly beautiful - this new phone (which Crowley had bullied him into getting) had excellent quality. Something about pixel counts. Aziraphale hadn’t bothered to ask; he knew better than to invite another 2-hour lecture about how important it was to be ‘with the times’. 

In the middle of chewing his lower lip and tracing the tiny copy of Crowley’s lovely hair with his gaze, he felt a stirring beside him.

“Bad angle?” Crowley grunted. 

Aziraphale started and fumbled for his phone in a hurried attempt to exit out of the current photo but only succeeded in dropping the surprisingly heavy square directly onto his face. _Did he see?_ he wondered, rubbing the bruised bridge of his nose and peeking sideways. The man’s eyes were still closed when Aziraphale had looked, but the automatic shutter sound on the phone must have woken him up. Why hadn’t he asked Crowley how to turn it off when he’d bought the phone?! Oh, right, the teasing.

“S-sorry.” He grappled in the pile for an available excuse. “I just-- I was testing out the camera--”

“Yeah, I know,” Crowley replied, and cracked open one eye. Immediately, pinned under that intense, golden gaze, Aziraphale felt his mouth dry up in a flash of heat that resonated throughout his entire body. Crowley looked, if it were possible, even more tantalizing. Better than any romantic novel cover even without any visible abs - those amber irises gently gazing up at him, the way he was tangled up in the bedsheets, his shoulder sloping just so, the peek of chest hair disappearing into the folds of the blanket. His voice was scratchy, stuck together with sleep between syllables, but that somehow made it even more attractive. “You can take another one,” he said, cocking an eyebrow suggestively.

Aziraphale tried to comprehend the words being spoken at him with minimal success. Most of his brain seemed to be out to lunch with the concept of rolling Crowley over and pinning him to the mattress and ‘taking’ something else entirely. “I beg your pardon?” he asked after what must have been an awkward second or two of silence. 

“A photo,” Crowley replied, closing his eyes again and turning his face deeper into the pillow. His expression was difficult to read when it was visible - now with his face hidden, it was anyone’s guess what he was thinking. “You can take another photo of me if you want. Married couples are s’posed to have photos of each other, aren’t they?”

“Y-yes,” Aziraphale muttered, and cleared his throat nervously. “I-I imagine they... might.”

“It’s the done thing.”

“Is it?”

Crowley opened one eye again and gazed up at him with a mix of that sardonic fondness he was so good at. “What are you going to tell the Dowlings if they ask to see photos of us together? Kind of strange if we don’t have any at all, don’t you think? Might be a little suspicious.”

At this, Aziraphale frowned. Crowley was right. They couldn’t exactly sail by on a single photo of his ‘husband’ in the cottage bed.

“Maybe,” he said, “you can... do that thing? The thing with the shop. For photos. The shopping of photos.”

“Photoshop,” Crowley snickered and he was once again smiling. “Christ, you dinosaur. It’s not that simple - I can’t do it on short notice. Look, just... Save the one you took a second ago and call it a day. If they ask, we can pretend that your phone got stolen recently and we lost the files.”

“And what about you?”

Crowley turned his head into the pillow and mumbled something unintelligible.

“ _Dear_ ,” Aziraphale said sternly.

The effect was inspiring - Crowley groaned but sat up almost at once, beginning to climb off of the bed on his own side with all the grace of someone utilizing a fire escape. “I’ve got a few,” he replied, still not making eye contact.

“A few?” Aziraphale repeated incredulously. “How many is ‘a few’?” With the very rare exception of when they got drunk enough to start taking those so called ‘selfies’ in Crowley’s apartment after one particularly crazy night involving tequila, they actively avoided being photographed together as much as possible. (The previously described episode ended with the villain promising to delete the incriminating snapshots, but Aziraphale had never actually demanded it. Deep down, he hoped they still existed somewhere - albeit somewhere private.) 

“A few,” reiterated Crowley. “What kind of husband would I be if I didn’t have photos of us? I came prepared, unlike _someone_.”

Ignoring the bait with practiced ease, Aziraphale kicked his heels off of the mattress and followed after. “ _What_ photos Crowley? What, exactly, are you prepared for?”

“Wiles,” explained Crowley vaguely, throwing a towel over his shoulder and stalking toward the bathroom. “Subterfuge. Trickery - deceit! All the stuff I’m good at. S’what we came here to do, innit? A big Theatrical Production. A Rube Goldberg machine of lies. That’s my department. So don’t worry - no need to sneak snapshots of me in the wee hours of the morning. I’ll cover for us, and no one will discover your scary big secret - that you’re actually _not_ married to the sexiest man in all of London.” He spun around in the bathroom doorway and grabbed the door, facing down Aziraphale. His face was a play of fifteen kinds of emotions - a cocky eyebrow arched gracefully, something that was attempting to pass for casual playfulness, and a nonchalance that was currently at war with another sort of expression in his eyes, which was almost certainly hurriedly-concealed panic. 

Aziraphale knew him well enough to put two and two together. Crowley seemed to forget this - and he seemed to also forget that Aziraphale had his own ammunition and would not take senseless teasing about momentary loss of control when _someone_ was just as guilty of it. 

“Well,” he said, placing one hand on the wall and setting the other on his hip. His eyes snapped to Crowley’s haughtily. “I suppose I’ll have no choice but to trust your wiles. But just between us... I sincerely hope you’re better at pretending to be married than you are at pretending to be asleep.”

There was a beat of silence, and then Crowley went red.

Aziraphale was still smiling smugly when the bathroom door slammed in his face - and he did not stop for the rest of the morning. 

* * *

Five minutes later Aziraphale deposited himself onto a barstool at the kitchen counter - albeit with some difficulty, given that the seats were evidently not part of the Everything Is Bigger In America collection. Harriet was already there, and she requested one of the maids get Aziraphale a coffee before turning her full attention back to him and launching into a Houseguest Special of Twenty Questions. 

“Sleep well? How was the room?” 

Aziraphale smiled winningly in return. He was still riding a rather warm updraft from Crowley’s embarrassed scowl this morning, and it was easy to act in good spirits. “It was lovely, my dear. Thank you ever so much. Everything is very spacious!”

“Not too cold, I hope? Did you use the fireplace?” she asked.

They continued in this manner for a time, until the coffee arrived, and Aziraphale began to slowly redirect her attention to other things. They discussed one of his recent books, and then discussed the weather, and then discussed Thaddeus, who was apparently still sleeping, although he would ‘definitely show his face for lunch’ - these were Harriet’s own words and they sounded vaguely threatening, but that was perhaps just her standard tableside manner.

“I really _am_ sorry for how he acted last night,” she said, and Aziraphale would have lingered more on the matter if she hadn’t pushed a plate of raisin cinnamon buns towards him at the same time. “He’s a bit out of touch. And he hasn’t really-- He wasn’t prepared for you to uh... Be um.” She paused awkwardly. “What I mean is. I apologize in advance for any strange comments from him. I’m afraid the whole thing was my idea - hiring you to do the book, that is.”

Aziraphale plucked a bun from the platter and bit into it. Warm butter seeped into his mouth and he found himself quite forgiving all of a sudden. “I can’t say I’m surprised,” he said, keeping his tone light. “That it was your idea, I mean. You’re quite the business-woman, I can already tell.” 

“Honestly, it wasn’t that difficult of a pick! Your work is amazing, and it’s so much more important to focus on accomplishments than personal details, isn’t it?” 

“That’s very kind of you my dear, and I appreciate you being so welcoming, despite it all.”

They sipped their coffee in mutual silence for a moment and then she launched into the next stage of interrogation. “Is Ashtoreth still in bed?” 

Despite the innocent nature of the question, Aziraphale’s mind, in a truly shocking feat of physics, skipped like a flattened rock over the most natural interpretation and sank directly into the most indecent one. 

Crowley certainly _had_ been in bed, hadn’t he. In his bed. Their shared bed. The one and only. It was difficult to bring up the memory of how close they really had been without submitting to a consequential blush.

“He’s in the shower,” informed Aziraphale, and then regretted that immediately afterwards as his imagination, ever-eager, supplied the appropriate visual for that as well. He certainly _had_ been in the shower last night, hadn’t he. Until he came out of the shower. Right in front of Aziraphale. Quite a sight, that was. He had barely had time to remember where they were, and who they were, and _what_ they were (and what they weren’t) in time to stop himself from doing something incredibly idiotic.

“Did he sleep alright? He seemed really out of it last night at dinner, though I imagine you both had a rough time driving up here all the way from New York.” Harriet was blissfully unaware of his mental game of tetris a few feet away. (Despite his general lack of knowledge of modern video games, Aziraphale _did_ know Tetris. He knew the mechanics, and the simplicity appealed to him. Maybe if he lined up the facts _just_ right the issue would disappear!)

He tried to re-focus himself and picked up a light, casual tone to try on for size. “It wasn’t as bad as all that, a very pleasant trip. But it was long. And after the airplane, you understand it is sometimes rather unpleasant to sit in ANOTHER metal tube hurtling at incredible speeds to uncertain destinations... And he’s--” Aziraphale hesitated, unsure of how much was appropriate to reveal about his ‘spouse’ under such circumstances. Last night he’d had a front row seat to Crowley’s eyebrow gymnastics when he launched into a backstory about the unfinished Astro-Physics doctorate. Maybe he had overstepped it? “He’s not entirely a people person, you see. Part of the reason we um, haven’t been seen in public much. He’s very private.”

Harriet winced sympathetically and leaned in. “Oh, I see. That must be difficult. I just hope Thaddeus didn’t upset him. He looked gloomy when he left.” 

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” Aziraphale replied with an accompanying chuckle, feeling a bit more confident now that they were back in well-explored areas of Crowley-ville. “Gloomy is his natural state. The man never managed to find a way to exit his Goth phase and now he’s perpetually stuck in the aesthetic.”

“Brave words, coming from someone who wears tartan.”

Harriet glanced up and over Aziraphale’s shoulder, lighting up at the sight of what was most certainly Crowley in the doorway. “Oh, good morning!”

Aziraphale did not turn around. He was still dangerously close to remembering about the shower. Instead he plucked another bun from the plate and gestured to Harriet to get her attention. “Dark skinny jeans,” he said. “Black long-sleeved shirt, v-neck. Black knit jumper.”

She blinked at him, and then blinked at Crowley, and then laughed. “Wow.”

“Am I wrong?” Aziraphale asked.

“You’re spot on.”

Crowley sauntered over - if only for the purpose of making a mocking facial expression in Aziraphale’s line of sight. “Hilarious, angel.”

“Don’t mention it, dear,” said Aziraphale, and they held each other’s gaze for a few seconds too many. Crowley’s scowl tinted red and he stretched his lips into their most accurate depiction of a gargoyle’s mute growl before turning around and flopping onto a barstool like a spider setting upon a prey with an overzealous amount of leg involvement. 

“Would either of you like breakfast?” Harriet asked, having evidently not noticed any of the tension in the room.

Aziraphale happily assented. Crowley refused the offer of pancakes, agreed to a coffee, and then fell into grumpy silence as they chatted aimlessly, which was not a fact that went unnoticed by their host. Like most other socialite-types, she was clearly suffering from withdrawals of community engineering. 

“Which one of you typically cooks when you’re at home?” she asked when the food finally arrived and could fulfil its role as the topic of conversation. 

Aziraphale picked up a fork and glanced sideways at Crowley in what he hoped was a casual manner. Right. It was time to ad lib. Liberally. 

“I’m afraid I’m rubbish in the kitchen,” he admitted. So far so good - this wasn’t even a lie by any stretch of the imagination. “So An--Ashtoreth does most of it.”

“Oh, that’s nice!” Harriet smiled. “What do you usually make?”

“Lots of stuff. Bake bread, mostly.” Crowley momentarily hid his face behind his mug of coffee. “Easier to make your own food when you’re trying to avoid animal-based ingredients.”

“Oh, that’s right, you mentioned that you’re vegan,” she replied, and then flipped her eyes back to Aziraphale. “But... you eat meat, right? Is that not hard, when you keep different diets?”

“Not at all,” said Aziraphale. “If I want to eat something he can’t, we go to a restaurant and or order takeout. It all works out, and I never say no to freshly baked bread.”

Harriet seemed all too sympathetic to this, and she laughed and leaned in with a conspiratorial wink. “Be honest, is that the _real_ reason you married him?”

“No,” said Aziraphale.

“Yes,” said Crowley at the exact same time.

They looked at each other, eyebrows climbing in tandem. 

“Come on angel,” said Crowley, who recovered first. “I know the way to your heart and just like your bookshop, you keep all doors tightly closed but one - and that is your stomach.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, I didn’t even know you baked until four years ago!” Aziraphale protested. Then, realizing that they were veering dangerously towards a fork in the road of their backstory, tried to slam the breaks. “I mean-- Yes, I do appreciate the baking, but that’s hardly the reason.” He felt awfully flustered despite it being such a simple disagreement. But it wasn’t fair - Crowley was making him sound like he was just in it for the pastries - and that wasn’t at all romantic. He was making it sound like this was a marriage of convenience!

_It is,_ a small and very unwelcome voice chimed in from the back of his head. _It_ is _a marriage of convenience. A fake marriage._

He deflated, shamed back into a momentary silence as the realization dawned on him. He had been the one to ask for this. Complaining was not in the cards. 

“And what about you, then, Ash?” continued Harriet, plowing onwards without any hint of awareness. “What did you marry for? Money?” She wiggled her eyebrows. 

“No, of course not,” Crowley replied “I’ve got that--”

“Fame?” she teased. 

Crowley and Aziraphale snorted in unison. Despite Aziraphale’s outward popularity, it could easily be argued that Crowley was the more successful of the two of them. His reach tended to be far wider, and his audience, although they might never admit it publicly, had no trouble pledging loyalty with their wallets.

“As a matter of fact, yes,” Crowley agreed without warning. He glanced at Aziraphale again and pasted on yet another shit-eating grin, leaning back against the counter and bending his spine at an angle dramatic enough to make a medical student somewhere back in London sit up in bed in cold sweat. “What an honor, to spend my life on the arm of Mister Fell, this decade’s most beloved spiritual novelist. For years I’ve dreamt of riches and wealth, but now I can finally have the recognition I deserve as his Trophy Husband!”

Unable to resist pulling a face this time, Aziraphale narrowed his eyes and pinched his lips accusingly. Crowley really was using this opportunity to make fun of him for all he had. The absolute devil - he should have known. He was _enjoying_ this! All while Aziraphale was fretting on their behalf, trying to make it sound unassuming and believable! 

A sudden reflex seized him, an indignant fire - he wasn’t about to be publicly made fun of. They were in this together, damnit, and Crowley couldn’t go the entire week poking fun at him without getting a taste of his own medicine. “Oh, don’t be silly, dear, you know that’s not it,” he protested, perfectly pleasant. “There is something else only I can do, isn’t there?”

Harriet turned her head, following the pass of the invisible conversational ball into the opposite court. Looking like he’d just been hit with something heavy over the head, Crowley tried for words ;“Uhh- nng... wassat?” fumbling to volley rather miserably. 

Aziraphale let it sail past him. Instead he leaned forward, as if to tuck a stray hair behind the man’s ear. Reached out, and, at the last second, allowed a smug grin to slip onto his lips. Opposite him, Crowley froze as his fingertips skimmed his ear and suddenly flipped and changed direction.

“Magic,” he said simply, exposing a golden coin between his fingertips with a needless flourish. 

As if on cue, Harriet gasped and clapped in enthusiastic approval. Under her boisterous complements, Aziraphale only barely had the time to steal a glance at his victim - and found him a pleasant shade of crimson, with a mixture of second-hand embarrassment and horror on his face. 

“No!” he groaned loudly, and then louder again, at Harriet. “No! Don’t encourage him-- He’ll keep doing this the whole time! He’s unbel-- Are you listening? _You’re_ unbelievable! I’m-- I can’t even spend a minute without you doing-- I--” With a final, indignant huff, the man stuffed his half-eaten sentences into a metaphorical satchel and sprang up from the chair demonstratively. 

Aziraphale wore his own shit-eating grin proudly. He didn’t even mind when Crowley threw up his hands and grabbed for his coffee, loudly announcing that he would be off to find some peace and quiet. 

As the other stepped around him, he swore he could almost hear a stage-whisper just behind his shoulder: 

“Oh it’s on, angel.”

* * *

It wasn’t a declaration of war, not exactly. If war was involved at all, it would be cold. A nuclear arms race, so to speak. 

The arms, the weapons in question, were dares. Provocations. Griping about a nonexistent issue in their nonexistent relationship. Griping about _real_ issues in their nonexistent relationship. (A pointed comment may have been made in Aziraphale’s direction about his time spent in custody at the International Airport Charles de Gaulle, in Paris, and another pointed comment may have been returned snappily about the state of one’s dress when one arrived at said Airport for an impromptu ‘rescue’ mission. “You don’t get to complain about my getup when you were in the detention room cosplaying a goddamn three-layer strawberry cake, Angel!” “I was not about to travel in a potato sack, I have standards!” “Sure, very high standards, they are for a criminal - did I mention he was attempting to smuggle out some--” “Yes, _dear_ , everyone heard you the first fifteen times.”)

If questioned, Aziraphale would, of course, deny his participation in this ill-mannered exchange of fire out of principal. He was not that kind of man. After all, Crowley was helping him out in a rather difficult situation. If anything, he should have taken the comments laying down and still thanked the other at the end of the day. 

Instead, he was enjoying their sniping immensely. More importantly, he enjoyed how easily Crowley seemed to become flustered when Aziraphale switched strategies and began to praise him for how ‘romantic’ and ‘dashing’ a husband he was. He spent the majority of his time trying to think of how to play his cards right to get Crowley to sputter and blush and try, without much success, to deny some new recount of a bedazzled version of an evening they’d spent together 2, or 3 or 5 years ago.

There was absolutely no reason for him to tease the other like this, no real rhyme to how much he reveled in the way they paced around each other like wolves, giving pretend snaps at each other’s ankles. 

Of course, that wasn’t entirely true. The reason did exist - but it was selfish, and not one Aziraphale was eager to examine too closely. A grocery list of sins to take to the confession booth, were he still inclined. 

Gluttony, pride, greed... lust.

Oh, lust. He knew he should place more weight on it, given the reason behind his constant side glances towards the object of his affection, but the reality was, it was only a piece of the puzzle. The real issue was how much other general selfishness was involved in the overwhelming desire he felt for the man.

Gluttony specifically - he wanted more. Always wanted more, despite knowing full well he could not have it. They’d always bickered in between their conversations about Anne Desclos, discussions of the Bloomsbury Group and further arguments regarding anything that took Aziraphale’s literary fancy. It was the palette cleanser before the next bite of sushi, an appetizer and a desert to their ever-revolving menu of topics, 

And up until now, it had been a rationed treat, something Aziraphale had no chance to indulge in aside from their rare moments together. But now he had the opportunity to not only lovingly bicker about odd things but also do it continuously. He didn’t have to stop and pull his hand back from the plate. He could snack, and keep on snacking until he was full. He could watch all of Crowley’s endearing reactions out in broad daylight, in high definition, like one of those TVs he refused to buy. 

It was indubitably bad for his health, all this over-indulging. He was going to spoil dinner, spoil his appetite, mess this up. Certainly there had to be a limit to this bad habit. Certainly the universe would eventually punish him for his overzealousness.

And yet the universe had put him there, at the table with Crowley on full display, only an arm’s reach away. Seasoned with the soft white light pouring in through the frosted windows, warmed to a crisp with the glow of the fireplace reflecting in his hair, wrapped and caramelized in a thin black half-sleeve shirt that hugged the elegant torso just so, straining against those wiry arm muscles as he leaned over the kitchen counter to steal a biscuit off of Aziraphale’s plate.

It was definitely deliberate on Crowley’s part. How couldn’t it have been? Aziraphale had taken care to make sure that most of their meetings throughout the years would be at night, under the cover of darkness so that he might not have to look at Crowley too closely. Now, in the light of day, the man seemed to be reveling in his freedom to flaunt every single asset he had in as much of a direct line of sight of Aziraphale as was physically possible (the fact that Aziraphale stubbornly kept Crowley in his line of sight was an irrelevant coincidence). 

Every swing of the hips taking a dangerous turn around the corner as if he was compensating for his lack of a Bentley, every carefully calculated ‘oops, shit, sorry, slippery fingers’ as he dropped yet another object handed to him and bent in half at the waist to pick it back up, every stroke of those long, elegant fingers along the length of his neck, tracing the delectable skin there... it was all on _purpose_ , Aziraphale was certain of it. 

The worst of it was knowing. Knowing full well how that lithe, perfect form felt pressed against him. Knowing the strength of those fingers digging into his back as the other writhed beneath his weight and begged in a breathless moan for more, drawing him closer, wrapping around him.

_Serpent_ , thought Aziraphale, not for the first time. It had been something of a running joke with them for the longest time - starting from the moment early on in their friendship when Crowley had gone on a chat-room rampage about how the snake in Eden had only been doing its job and, well, if God hadn’t actually wanted the humans to eat the apple, wouldn’t it have been more reasonable to place it somewhere out of reach? The moon, perhaps. 

Aziraphale had laughed then. Laughed quite fondly, in the dark in front of his computer, wondering if he should get to know this skittish, sharp-tongued stranger better. 

He was not laughing now. 

  
  


“Are you alright?” Harriet asked, interrupting his internal monologue and snapping him back into the present, where he was sat at a coffee table with the host of the cottage and his (pretend) spouse.

“Oh, yes, I’m sorry.” Thankfully his reflex to respond amiably was alive and well, even when his head was rattling and empty. “Just a bit distracted. I’m still on London time, I’m afraid.”

Crowley glanced up from his spot crouched by the fireplace and lifted one elegant eyebrow at him. Aziraphale looked back, trying to pretend he was fine, it was fine, he could handle it. That he wasn’t being thoroughly led astray with the twisting silhouette of the other against the flames in the fireplace. That the shape of his hair, pulled back into a half-bun and loose about the shoulders, did not inspire a flood of memories of a similar condition where the thing holding that hair at the back of his head was _not_ a hair tie.

The issue was not that he was leaning against the apple tree resisting a bite being offered to him by a particularly convincing reptile. No - it was worse. He had already had a taste, had already devoured the apple whole and now, with its juice still dribbling down his chin, he was itching to climb up into the branches, determined to rid the thing of its entire harvest in one afternoon while leafing through apple fritter recipes in his head.

Gluttony indeed.

“How about a break for coffee?” Harriet said.

“I’ll get it.” For some reason it was Crowley that stood up, unfolding his lanky knees and stepping around the table and behind the couch.

“I hope I’m not boring you,” Harriet said, once again catching Aziraphale’s attention when the distracting devil was out of sight. “I’m sure you wanted to talk business with Thaddeus, but it’s unfortunately quite common for him to be on a call at any given hour of the day. He should be freed up for dinner this evening, at the very least, but for now you’ll have to put up with me.”

“Nonsense my dear,” Aziraphale assured her with a warm smile. “I’m loving your company. I’m just-- I really must be more tired than I let on. Haven’t got much sleep, you understand.” 

“Oh, _do I_ ,” groaned Harriet sympathetically. “I’m a disaster every time we have to travel. Up and down the coast is one thing... heading over to other countries for visits is an absolute clusterfuck-- oops!” She put her hand over her mouth and looked at him guiltily. 

“What?” asked Aziraphale, confused for a moment before he realized her worry. “Oh, good lord, no - please don’t mind about the swearing. Cr-- My husband has quite a mouth on him. If I were worried about that, I daresay our marriage wouldn’t have lasted.”

Harriet relaxed, and then leaned back as she considered this information. “You are rather different, aren’t you?” she said. “I get the feeling that I wouldn’t have expected the two of you to be together under normal circumstances. How did that happen?”

Aziraphale gave an innocent half-shrug. “Opposites attract? And while we’re certainly different, there’s a lot we have in common.” 

“Such as?”

Aziraphale’s gaze drifted away for a moment. He opened his mouth, tried to think of a story, tried to construct some intricate lie of an idealistic marriage and then stopped the construction halfway through, catching it somewhere in his throat and choking it back. 

He and Crowley _did_ have a lot in common. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more things came to mind. 

The crumpled blueprints of the white-picket fence life went flying, metaphorically tossed over his shoulder. The notecards scattered onto the floor behind the podium.

_Why not just... wing it?_ he thought.

“We both appreciate the finer things.” A steady calmness crept over him as he spoke, shuffling for words, picking them carefully out of their files as if he were leading a sermon. No lies - just careful selection, showing only so much detail while pocketing the rest. “Wine, good food... Also the arts. Opera, theatre. We have different tastes but we also love a good debate, so it creates a nice little ecosystem of arguments to feed back into our time together.” He smiled quietly to himself and stole a glance towards the kitchen, which was out of sight around the corner. He could imagine Crowley there, curled like a question mark at the counter, elegant hands around a mug. He’d seen the other in such a pose enough times to not even need a visual prompt.

Harriet hummed and set her elbows onto the table, leaning towards him. “Do you argue often?”

“Only about insignificant things,” Aziraphale replied. “Like where to go for dinner or... which bottle of port to open for a night in. Sometimes about theology.”

She hummed again. “You say insignificant but theology isn’t exactly a light topic. Your books are all about religion and spirituality. And Ash he-- Is he an atheist?” 

Aziraphale chuckled. “It’s complicated. He’s rather against organized religion as a concept.”

“And it doesn’t bother you?”

_Bother?_ Aziraphale thought, almost as if he’d forgotten that such a thing were possible. He realized, with a bit of a start, that he had not considered their opposing worldviews an issue for half a decade. More than that, even. It had never been anything but a pleasant tension to balance their conversation on. 

But it was one thing to navigate the theological maze of his beliefs while sidestepping Crowley’s own, and another completely to explain it to some stranger. Before he could begin to think of how to reply, there was a shuffling of steps from the kitchen and they both glanced over at Crowley, approaching with several mugs precariously balanced in his arms. 

“Made three.” Without much prompting, a mug settled into Aziraphale’s hand. The other he gave to their hostess. “Harriet, this is for you. Now... what did I miss? What are you two talking about?”

“Mostly about you,” Aziraphale said, spinning the cup in his hands to curl his fingers into the handle properly. “Harriet is trying to mine me for information.”

The woman laughed and waved him off. “No, no, not at all! It’s just natural curiosity. I asked Aziraphale what you two argue about.”

“We don’t,” Crowley responded, sinking into the seat beside Aziraphale but leaving a polite foot of space. “Arguing with him is impossible. I just say ‘yes angel’ and keep my head down. Sometimes, if I’m feeling particularly bold, I suggest where we go to dinner.”

“Oh hush, you,” protested Aziraphale. “I’m not that bad.” 

“Sure, if you like explaining your opinion to a wall,” snorted Crowley, and then, catching a side-glare, abated; “Which, as you know, is my favorite past-time.”

“But I thought Aziraphale said you like to debate,” Harriet said, eyes narrowing just a fraction.

To Crowley’s credit, he did not even hesitate. “We do,” he agreed, taking a hearty sip from his own mug and smacking his lips. “It works better when he’s got some alcohol in him. That’s why I only begin talking to him after the Intermission champagne has worked its magic.”

“Is this about that time we went to see Rite of Spring?” asked Aziraphale incredulously. “Will you let it go - I’ve said my peace!”

Crowley rolled his eyes, taking care to transfer the effect across his entire face so that it might not be lost behind his glasses. “You’ve said your war, too - Tolstoy would be shocked at how much you said on both subjects.” 

“Very clever,” Aziraphale replied with a tisk. “For a man who spent the whole performance googling half-naked photos of Nijinski.”

Crowley groaned theatrically. “Those are the only photos of him available! _Forgive me_ for seeking a bit of historical accuracy!”

“Oh, is that what you’re calling it these days?”

“Okay, okay,” said Harriet hurriedly, looking startled at how quickly everything had taken off. Whatever her curiosity (or scepticism) had been, it appeared, for the moment, sated. A small part of Aziraphale was smug about this, but another part of him didn’t know how to feel. 

If he could be proud of making things up on the spot that would be one thing - a boon to his career as an author, a point awarded to his imagination. But none of what they’d said had been anything other than an amusing recollection of events that transpired a few years ago, after Crowley had once again waved a pair of tickets in his face and made some half-genuine threat of wanting to participate in a riot, if history was going to repeat itself, or perhaps even start one depending on how well he liked the show. Aziraphale had gone with him to make sure nothing actually happened (Crowley’s urges were dangerous things, after all, _someone_ had to keep an eye on him) and they’d had an overall lovely time, half-drunken argument about inappropriate costume choices notwithstanding. 

“It must be nice,” said Harriet, in the middle of an obvious segway into a more calm conversation, “to still go on so many dates even after being together for so long.”

Aziraphale felt a shiver. _Yes, it really is just such a lucky coincidence_ , he thought carefully, like treading on ice that was cracking right beneath his feet. A pleasant, meaningless stroke of good fortune that they just happened to have a backup of stories to share for this exact moment. 

Beside him, Crowley snorted as if amused. “If I didn’t drag him out of his bookshop, we wouldn’t go anywhere at all,” he said. “He just wants to stay in all the time. Sometimes I wonder what would happen if I were to just... stop asking him out.”

Aziraphale turned his head. Crowley was already looking back at him, lips stretched into a taut line, daring him to argue. In the reflection of the dark lenses, Aziraphale could see a rather shocked expression on his own face - almost forlorn - that he didn’t recall making. His eyes were wide. 

“I would get lonely, I should think,” he said very quietly.

Crowley swallowed and hurriedly turned back to his coffee. Whatever bravery had been shining out of him a moment prior was once again squirreled away in exchange for something almost resembling bashfulness. 

“Doubt it,” he muttered. 

Aziraphale’s heart fluttered in trepidation, and then the discomfort lurched downward to his stomach like a punch in the gut. A memory of Crowley assaulted his mind - six years ago on the street corner, illuminated by the neon sign of the Garden, kicking the ground anxiously. Like he thought he was about to be rejected. Like he didn’t know how much Aziraphale had wanted him.

He didn’t exactly hide it well. Did Crowley really think...?

But as soon as the moment arrived it was gone again - Crowley was tipping his chin back up, focusing on Harriet and holding out his phone, saying something about Russian ballet. He wasn’t paying attention to how Aziraphale stared at his back, biting his lip. 

The crunch of the apple’s soft skin breaking under his teeth was just a faded memory.

* * *

How do you know you have something if you’re not able to grasp it, hold it in hand, feel the physical push of its mass against your palms?

Possession, ownership, being able to call something yours - it’s merely a state of mind. One may go so far as to say that nothing is ever, really, owned. We merely take things on rent, be it long or short as our own lifespans. 

Humans are temporary. Regardless of belief in the afterlife or lack thereof, one cannot deny mortality, the limited state of our physical being. Holding something only lasts as long as you have hands and arms to hold it with. Once skin and bone and teeth have worn away to ash, how does one lay claim on their beloved?

As a religious man, Aziraphale wondered often about Heaven. He wondered more often about Hell. He lingered, sometimes, on purgatory. 

None of these he lingered on as long as he lingered on Crowley’s consistency. His rebound. His promise - silent and steady as the phases of the moon. An ancient calendar, unwritten and unreadable, leaving no clues to its use except for its unrelenting punctuality. 

The sound of footsteps gracing his door. The ring of the bell. A flourish of the hand, something always in it. Tickets, a pamphlet, a phone showing blurry photos of some far-away bar where they wouldn’t fall victim to prying eyes. Depending on the season - a soft smile or a teasing, mischievous grin. 

Aziraphale was a devout believer. He kept to the calendar. He observed each holy day. He studied, and he made mental notes, and he mapped the stars and he knew - he always knew when Crowley would visit. 

And Crowley always did. 

It was in those moments, when he felt closest to what most people called ‘Heaven’, that Aziraphale pondered Hell. He took the tickets from that hand, and felt hot when their fingers brushed. He flipped open a pamphlet and sensed the impact of a breath leaning closer to look over his shoulder. He moved in to glance at the screen and his eyes watered from the brightness. 

What is Hell? One might argue it is about punishment. Others say it is simply the absence of God. 

Aziraphale leaned into the latter theory. He imagined the holy calendar running out of days. He imagined his doorway empty. He imagined the sudden lack of Crowley in his life. He imagined the promised consistency tearing itself off, abruptly, leaving him grabbing at empty air, punishing him for not being brave to reach out and fully grasp it. 

Once upon a time, for a night, Crowley had given himself freely. 

Now, he made no offers. But he offered his time. He offered regularity. He offered a steady, pulsing existence that was there, that kept tandem with him even when he asked for nothing. 

Each time, when their outing was done, when the wine bottle was empty, when they had finished outlining their drafts, Aziraphale would watch him walking away to the door of the bookshop. He would close his throat around a plea.

A prayer remained in his heart. Hollow, and wanting, and tethered to the unfaltering calendar.

_If you love something, let it go._

_If it comes back..._

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you ever so much for your endless support! I've been an absolute BUTT about answering comments, but I'm slowly trying to plug away at answering them!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Closer together and further apart. Round and round we go. Who knows where we'll end up?

* * *

It was difficult to tell whether things were getting worse or better.

Let’s lay aside such a dilemma and instead settle for saying that those specific ‘things’, for the lack of an appropriate descriptor, simply progressed. For the next few days he and Crowley continued to engage in their marital squabble Space Race which was taking a very historically accurate turn of mutual spying on each other from afar. In between chatting to Harriet about their ‘house’ - a made-up domain (which was most definitely not the bookstore and also not Crowley’s apartment but instead a frankenstein monster of something pieced together through overlapping and increasingly ghastly descriptions of clashing interior decoration) Aziraphale also took a few hours to chat with Thaddeus about what, specifically, he wanted in his custom-ordered ‘book’.

He had hardly any room to complain - talking about the project was a part of his job after all. Securing an agreement was the whole point of this discomforting visit. But sitting around in something called a ‘man-cave’ in the back of the house, overseen by twenty pairs of glassy taxidermied eyes while pretending interest in America’s finest capitalist expenditures was not exactly easy. He tried to nod along and pay as much attention as possible while the man discussed something that was apparently the World’s Largest Ball of Twine, but it was difficult with the memory of the previous two nights still rolling around in the back of his head and tangling up everything instead.

Unlike the first time they’d climbed into bed together (or rather, the second, but that line of thinking was off-limits), the following venture was almost painless. Crowley had poked away on the piano downstairs while Aziraphale was showering, and had only returned after the author was already settled, a laptop computer on his knees and spectacles on the edge of his nose. 

They’d exchanged a routine conversation regarding the short story Aziraphale was trying to finish about his trip to France, bickered about the guillotine, about fashion during the Revolution, and Crowley had seamlessly slipped under the covers next to him with something of a casual air. For a while, Aziraphale worked in silence and even began to suspect that Crowley was trying out his old pretending-to-be-asleep trick again. But that theory was quickly overturned when the man instead shivered and groped for more covers behind him. 

“Fuckin’ freezing,” he’d muttered. “I swear it’s even colder than yesterday.”

“Temperatures are supposed to be dropping,” replied Aziraphale absentmindedly. “Harriet said something about a storm on the Canadian coast - cold fronts and all that.”

Crowley huffed and dragged the covers up to his ears. “Hibernation seems like a grand idea right about now,” he muttered into the sheets. 

“It’s not that bad.”

“Yeah, maybe for you. You’re a bloody heater, I can feel it from all the way over here.”

There was no easy way to answer that. A simple acknowledgement of his own body temperature seemed redundant. As an author, repetition of the same fact was only useful insofar as leaving breadcrumbs for the readers to follow. Weaving a story together with obtuse signals, pointing to the shotgun hanging over the fireplace... that was not Aziraphale’s style. 

But it was Crowley’s.

Did it mean something? It very well could have. Crowley’s subtlety could be fickle - at times he wove wine spider-sink threads of suggestion into his narratives, but the very next chapter might as well be constructed entirely of thick sailor’s knots.

Even more fickle was his ability to pick up on the signs someone else was sending out. Everything was a gamble, and ever since their chat over coffee, Aziraphale was suspecting that his previous six year’s worth of very subtle Morse Code messages of silent adoration had gone unnoticed by the receiving party.

The chance was fading. His guilt was gnawing at him, and the teeth were wearing down the carefully constructed walls as if they had been made of the finest bricks of Purina Chow. He knew he had but these few nights to get his fill - and, as evidenced by his previous experience, Crowley did not seem morally opposed to physical proximity... so... 

Without moving his eyes up from the screen (this was important - he had to appear nonchalant), Aziraphale lifted his arm. “Come here, then.”

He had no idea how long the following silence was. It felt like hours - years, even. His own heart stuttered and wheezed and panted through a marathon-length panic attack before it was over. (Had it been a mistake? Too much? Too little? Had Crowley not understood? Was he refusing?) And yet when he checked the time in the corner of his screen, the minute had not even changed. 

More importantly - there was a shift in the sheets. 

Crowley shuffled over towards him and then shoved himself to Aziraphale’s side. His face - or what little of it Aziraphale could see from behind a reinforced cover of blankets and hair - appeared to be red.

“Fuck,” he hissed a second later, sounding relieved. “You’re a radiator...”

“Can’t lose you to hypothermia,” Aziraphale said in a voice that was definitely not his - it was too steady and calm for what was happening inside of his own head. 

“Right,” Crowley had replied. “Husband supply low, gotta be careful with your current model. Very pragmatic.” 

Aziraphale fought the urge to smile in relief. “They don’t make them like they used to.”

“You callin’ me old?” snorted Crowley against his hip.

“You know I prefer vintage.”

Perhaps that last comment had been too much - it shut up Crowley for the rest of the evening. Still, it couldn’t have been too bad because the man hadn’t pulled away, had remained pressed against him until he finished a rough draft for the chapter almost two hours later. By the time Aziraphale reached over to turn off the bedside lamp Crowley was deeply asleep, stretched out at his side in a serpentine coil. His knee had even managed to sneak around Aziraphale’s ankle and, given the opportunity, his hand would likely have advanced to hug Aziraphale’s thigh within another thirty minutes. 

They did not talk about it the next morning. Crowley rolled away during the night again, and Aziraphale woke up early enough to sneak out of bed and go downstairs to avoid any further temptation to snap candid photos.

The third night yielded even more mysterious results - Crowley was already in bed by the time Aziraphale had returned from his late-night chat with the Dowlings. When Aziraphale climbed in and opened his book on his lap, a pair of chilled feet pressed up against his calf. He’d, predictably enough, yelped in surprise. Crowley had chuckled like it was amusing. Then, wordlessly, he slid up to Aziraphale and pressed up against him like the previous two times. 

Aziraphale hadn’t said anything - just flipped to the next page and ignored his own internal screaming as if he was - _God forbid!_ \- getting used to this. 

The next morning he woke up, checked to see that Crowley had migrated back to his own side, and had gone downstairs to get some writing in.

They did _not_ discuss it. They didn’t even sit close enough to touch during the day. The average amount of physical interaction amounted to an accidental brush of the shoulders - once, they’d bumped knees under the table before hurriedly correcting themselves to a minimum distance of twelve inches. 

It was a fact that did not go unnoticed by their hosts, and only served to fuel the quizzical looks of concern thrown occasionally in their general direction.

Perhaps if they’d been less obvious about it, the momentum would not have thrown them so far when it had the chance. 

* * *

Americans were the strangest things. 

They were a contradiction in and of themselves. Sometimes boisterous and other times severe. Incredibly friendly - and somehow cold. Very easily scandalized... and yet fully willing to embarrass themselves for the merest hint of a cheesy trope. 

Aziraphale was well familiar with weakness for cheese, for that was one trait he did share with their gracious hosts. However, their affinity for choosing the most mortifying of all potential things and then presenting them as ‘fun’ was something that he could never agree with, much as he tried to remain friendly and amiable to all forms of Social Time for the sake of the book deal and subsequent all-expenses-paid tour. 

This conclusion was one he came to very rapidly when, on the third evening of one such wine-fueled 4-people gathering, the playlist providing some soothing background music suddenly changed into something a little more up-beat. 

“Oh, this!” Harriet exclaimed. “This is the song we danced to at our wedding!”

She jumped up again from the chair which she’d settled upon merely a minute before and all but flounced over to Thaddeus, who was currently deep (and where Thaddeus was involved, this depth was approximately ankle-height) in discussion with Crowley about American history. He looked quite put out at the prospect of ending his historically inaccurate recount of the Civil War, but his wife was a force of nature that he knew he could not win against. 

“My knees aren’t what they used to be, Harriet,” he grumbled, but already she had hooked her arm under his elbow and dragged him up, knees and all.

“A gentleman would,” she replied simply, and pulled him into a very poor approximation of some sort of sway that might have been a modern fusion of jazz and polyrhythms, or just a very poor attempt at a waltz. 

Aziraphale settled back into the couch and pulled his glass up to his lips, observing silently. For all the second hand embarrassment this was giving him, the two seemed more or less fine with being watched as they swayed around the room. Thaddeus, confidence boosted by scotch and by the standard Politician’s Bonus any amount of audience gave him, even began to bumble the song’s theme tunelessly as he spun himself and Harriet around the billiard table. 

Somewhere to his left there was a tiny snort. Turning his head to look, Aziraphale spotted Crowley with an expression similar to his own - wry amusement mixed with something that was begrudgingly impressed. Though with what he wasn’t sure - Crowley had never had a problem with having people’s attention on him. This was evidenced most clearly by the pair of scarlet trousers he was wearing today. They were a very reasonable shade of red - not gaudy and tinted just a bit with matte fabric that made them fashionable. Still, it was very difficult to ignore the shape of his arse in them, which was, presumably, the entire point. 

_Show-off_ , Aziraphale thought with an inward sigh. Not that he had any room to complain. Crowley was currently on the couch next to him - albeit a professional ten inches away. Their eleven days had been whittled down to eight, and their supposed marriage was shaping up to be very proper indeed. Outside of their nightly arrangement of Human Radiator and Human Approximant Of Cold Blooded Reptile, they were extremely chaste. No uncouth gay hand holding had even been attempted, so there was nothing for Thaddeus to be uncomfortable with. Gabriel would definitely be pleased. 

“What?” said a voice quietly beside him.

Aziraphale turned his head, but Crowley made no matching motion. He continued to look down, fully disinterested in the situation outside of his smartphone screen on all levels except verbal. He spoke again - out of the corner of his mouth. “What’s that face for?”

Aziraphale looked back at Harriet and Thaddeus dancing. They almost ran into an armchair and then righted themselves out and began something that looked like a Lindy Hop. “What face?” he asked, matching Crowley’s volume. “I’m not making a face.”

“Yes you are. You’re displeased with something. Your mouth is doing the thing.”

Aziraphale’s lips tugged further into their frown. “What thing?”

“That thing.” Crowley shifted beside him, put his phone away and then arched his arms over his head in a stretch. When he lowered them again one came to settle on the spine of the couch - almost directly behind Aziraphale’s shoulders. A fact which Aziraphale bravely attempted to ignore. “Am I making it too obvious that I’m not interested in nationalist propaganda?”

“I think you’re doing a well enough job,” Aziraphale assured him. “I’m not expecting you to lie through your teeth. You’re already doing me a huge favor.”

Now it was Crowley’s turn for his mouth to do _the thing_. “Yes, well, we can’t half-arse it.” He flashed Harriet a winning grin when she spun past and made eye contact, and then lowered his voice even more. “S’why we’re here, isn’t it? It would be a waste to come all this way only for me to screw it all up for you.”

“You won’t,” Aziraphale replied quietly. 

“I already almost did,” Crowley muttered. “With that damn photo from six years ago.”

Feeling a chill, Aziraphale quickly glanced back at the distracted Dowlings. His throat felt unbearably tight. Now was definitely not the time to parse technicalities, now was _not the time_ but--

But before he could make it to the end of that thought, Crowley’s arm nearly brushed his shoulder and he jumped instinctively out of the way as the other leaned across the table to snag something.

“Oi, Thaddeus, your phone’s goin’ off,” Crowley called out, holding up the vibrating black square. 

The dance - currently in the middle of transforming into a very amateur tango - was abruptly cut short. Thaddeus accepted the call and immediately wobbled off towards the staircase, leaving Harriet in the middle of the floor, her hands on her hips. She seemed for a moment displeased, but then schooled it and instead decided to focus her energy on the two people who couldn’t escape with any amount of excuses. 

“Do you dance?” she asked. 

“Oh, a very long time ago,” Aziraphale said with a polite smile. “But not anything you’d know, I’m afraid.”

She huffed and turned to Crowley. “You _definitely_ dance. You look like you’d dance in clubs. All that modern stuff I bet?”

Crowley allowed himself a crooked smile. “I used to, but I’m afraid I’m getting up in the years too.” He set his wine glass aside and set his hands on his knees. “But if you want to--”

“What did _you_ dance at _your_ wedding?” she asked. 

Crowley froze mid-movement and turned to look at Aziraphale. His sunglasses reflected the man’s own startled expression back at him. “Oh, we uh--”

“We didn’t really have--” Aziraphale cleared his throat awkwardly and cursed himself. Why didn’t they prepare a story? “We didn’t have a wedding, exactly, we--”

“Yes, yes, I get that you couldn’t get properly married but you must have had a gathering of some sort. With friends and family and things?” Harriet stepped closer and picked up her own wine before heading over to the laptop on the table that was plugged into speakers. While she was turned away, the guilty party hurriedly exchanged several shrugs and vague hand-gestures behind her back. By the time she turned back to them, they were once again sitting primly on the couch, the perfect picturesque couple.

“We didn’t quite... ever get the chance,” Aziraphale said, because merely a moment ago, Crowley had all but splashed wine at his face in mute panic. “We figured...” He looked at the other again, hoping his face merely hinted idle thoughtfulness instead of the fact that he was desperately trying to improvise on the spot. “We figured we should wait until it was made legal in full. And then we would um. Make the event a proper one.”

“Oh, well won’t that be romantic!” cooed Harriet approvingly. “Alright, but when you do have it, what sort of music would you play?”

“Classical,” Aziraphale said hurriedly. Crowley remained suspiciously silent. “Uh, I like instrumental music. Not really one for bepop.”

This time Crowley did snort, and even went so far as to mutter ‘ _bepop_ ’ incredulously under his breath.

“What about you, Ashtoreth?” asked Harriet, homing in on him as if the reaction inspired her to think he was not as lost a hope as Aziraphale himself. 

“Mmm, don’t really know,” he replied, drawing his index finger over his lip thoughtfully with the same hand that was gripping his wine glass. He looked very casual in his slouch, perfectly relaxed - but his free hand, which was on the couch between his and Aziraphale’s thighs, was tightly clenched into a fist. “I suppose...” He paused, and then tilted his face downward subtly. And was it the lighting, or were his ears going red?

“What was that?” Harriet called. 

Crowley looked back up. Took another hearty sip of wine. “Maybe some Velvet Underground,” he said finally. “Something like Pale Blue Eyes might be nice.”

Immediately, there was a flurry of keystrokes. A moment of echoing clicks. Then chords began to filter through - slow and easy, completely unlike whatever Aziraphale had expected after years of being trapped in Crowley’s car with his typical tracks. 

_Sometimes I feel so happy..._

_Sometimes I feel so sad..._

He turned to the other, eyebrows raised in question, but Crowley didn’t look at him. Instead he was looking at Harriet with growing concern. 

“You can’t be serious,” he protested. 

Aziraphale followed his gaze and realized, with a stomach-dropping clarity, that Harriet was sitting down, and... gesturing. To them.

Aziraphale felt himself backpedaling mentally before the idea was even fully formed in her head. “Oh, no,” he hurried to say, following in Crowley’s footsteps. “I-- I’ve never had any sort of talent for, I mean, I can’t--”

“Come on, Thaddeus and I did!” she urged. “And you’ll have to dance eventually, at your own wedding. Maybe someday soon!”

A flush drenched Aziraphale like a bucket of water, only hot, but before he could come up with any better excuse, he felt the couch let up the weight on its other side, and all at once there was a hand in front of him - held out, palm up. 

He skimmed his eyes up the arm and then to Crowley’s face, which was carefully closed off to him in more ways than one. At the very least one of them was more or less composed. 

“Come on then,” he said quietly. “Can’t disappoint our host.”

 _Right_ , thought Aziraphale, remembering what the real concern here was. Crowley was nothing if not goal-oriented. And refusing now might be a little insulting since Harriet and Thaddeus had already put themselves out there so readily. 

He reached up - hesitated just a moment before their fingers touched. 

_Linger on..._

_Your pale blue eyes...._

His gaze skipped up again, his throat jumped. Crowley betrayed no hint of emotion - but his fingers twitched around Aziraphale’s gently, and closed until the familiar metal of the signet ring pressed against his skin, warmed by Crowley’s own hand. 

He stood. Immediately, he wanted to sit down again, because his head was pounding and his vision was threatening to tilt 40 degrees to the left. Somehow he made it through - mostly by the grace of Crowley guiding him out from behind the coffee table and towards a more open area. They paused, hovering, and then Crowley stepped forward, closed the distance, and reached his arm towards Aziraphale’s waist. 

It was almost too much. Aziraphale’s heart doubled its pace and he had to close his eyes, had to take some form of defense against his own desperate aching need.

“I don’t really know how to--” His voice cracked. “Er, probably step on your feet, dear, you’ll have to forgive me...”

“S’alright,” said Crowley. Crowley, who was now a bit closer than his usual 10 inches. 

It was fine. He was fine with it. They had shared a bed. They had-- It was fine. They were fine. They were supposed to be _married_ , for god’s sake.

“Right,” said Aziraphale, and, with trembling hands, reached up and set them on Crowley’s shoulder. Which was also fine. He’d touched Crowley’s shoulder before. Plenty of times. He’d helped him into a coat once or twice. He’s brushed snow off of his collar before. This was nothing compared to that. 

“Just... follow me,” Crowley murmured, and together, they began to sway slowly. Lightly. It could barely be called dancing, even if one was generous, but they _were_ following the music. 

_Thought of you as my mountaintop_

_Thought of you as my peak_

_Thought of you as everything_

_I’ve had but couldn’t keep_

This time Crowley’s jaw did tighten - he was sure of it. He could see it as the gentle golden light danced across his cheek and glinted off of his glasses. He had turned away, but the bounce of his Adam's apple did not go unnoticed. 

Aziraphale closed his eyes again, and carefully shifted his grip on Crowley’s shoulder. Breathed in his scent, basking in the warm glow of something warm and earthly.

_Linger on..._

He glanced back up. 

_Your pale blue eyes..._

Crowley was looking back at him. Probably looking - it was hard to tell behind the glasses but he thought that he could see the path of the other’s eyes. He could certainly see those eyebrows, pulled tightly together. He could see - and feel - the way Crowley’s shoulder tensed, muscle taut as a bowstring.

 _Linger on.._.

_Your pale blue eyes..._

It was probably nothing. This - this was the result of a very stubborn romance author who was very invested in whatever story they were putting on for the Dowlings. And Aziraphale was not complaining - no. He trusted Crowley with this far more than he trusted himself with Crowley. They could make it good. They could make it believable. They already were. The plan was working. 

And meanwhile, he could enjoy whatever closeless he could get. The momentary heat of Crowley’s fingers in his, the gentle movement of the hand on his hip, and if it couldn’t quite decide where to settle and kept flittering nervously upwards or downwards.

Poor Crowley. Even though he was trying his best to behave, to help him, to make this work out.... Aziraphale, the villain, was enjoying this. Despite its layers and uncertainties. Despite its ambiguous meanings. 

He had Crowley, finally, for the first time in such a long time, he had him, in at least some small way. It was more than enough. 

_She said ‘money is like us in time’_

_‘It lies but can’t stand up’_

Aziraphale closed his eyes.

_Down for you is up_

* * *

To a certain extent, any given metaphor was whatever you wanted it to be. Schrodinger’s meaning - until the author relayed the message behind some symbol, it could be read in so many different ways. Sometimes, it was even better to leave it ambiguous, let the readers guess, keep the doors open. Keep them wondering.

He had practice with this. 

Coded Missives. Secret Messages. Folding up meaning into words, tucking it between paragraphs of drivel, inserting it, injecting it, into prose as if they were some sort of spies, telegraphing to each other across the ocean, afraid of being discovered. 

The problem was, there was no decryption key. 

All he could do was type. Backspace. Type. Backspace. Cover his face with his hands, breathe, immerse himself into a different world.... Start typing again. 

What is code but a masquerade? One letter puts on the mask of another. There’s an imperceptible shift. A dance: Twice to the right. Thrice to the left. Ceasar’s Shift. Vigenère Cipher. A realigning of some features in order to disguise them - but the meaning remains.

Three years into their Arrangement, disillusioned of the idea that he still had any room left to protest for his dignity, Aziraphale sat at his desk and wrote, feverishly, of the things he wanted to do to Crowley. He laid out in explicit detail how he would grasp his wrists, pin him to the bed. He penned sentences of removing clothes, article by article, taking his time, forcing Crowley to wait until they were both hard and aching and the pain of not touching was nearly unbearable. He described how he would hike up Crowley’s legs over his hips, how he would slide a hand up his throat, to his jaw, how he would dip a thumb into the corner of his mouth and whisper _‘Open up for me, love, yes, just like that, perfect.’_

He dared to venture that Crowley might reply, in a breathless keen, or that he might jerk his hips, that his thighs might tremble, that he might toss his hair in an uncontained jolt of pleasure coursing through him. 

He wrote, he wrote and he wrote. And when he was finished, he would bite the meat of his hand and press his palm against the front of his trousers and suffocate a whine. He would close his eyes, and unbutton himself with trembling hands, and lose himself in his own imagined scene, in his canvas of words, drowning in promises of pleasure that would never come to fruition. 

Then, he would breathe out unevenly, clean himself up, and hoist himself back to his computer for one last edit. He would change the names, change the pronouns, reading and re-reading and checking the draft before he sent it off to Crowley under innocent labels like ‘Chapter 18.doc’ or ‘Ballroom Scene.txt’. He would add needless messages to even out the flavor of salt in his mouth. ‘You might need to add a connecting paragraph or two, I couldn’t figure out why they both end up in the kitchen all alone’ or ‘I know this character is a stickler for rules, but you said you wanted him to loosen up a little to foreshadow his arc in the later story. Let me know if it needs a rewrite.’

Every time, Crowley would return his emails with a grateful and very encouraging swarm of comments. They couldn’t be called outwardly nice, but in their own Crowley way, they were the highest praise. He would make jokes, he would poke fun at the characters, or at Aziraphale’s devotion to historical accuracy, but he never said a negative word about the content. 

Most often, he would simply reply with ‘Bloody hell!!!’ and Aziraphale felt a jolt of pleasure run through him, knowing that Crowley read, and he liked, and he approved of these scenes - scenes which were, really, just a grocery list of all the ways Aziraphale wanted him. It was validating, and more importantly - it kept him afloat. Made him believe, in the smallest, most secret corner of his mind, that Crowley maybe _knew_ the real meaning behind the carefully crafted narratives, _knew_ who was hiding behind the masks of their characters. 

Once, he had gotten too confident. Or maybe Crowley had - by asking him to write ‘a letter in first person, addressed to someone unnamed’. 

_Which story is this for?_ Aziraphale had asked. 

_Just a stand alone_ , Crowley had replied. One for his collection of dirty short stories he had been planning to hand off to Beelzebub. _You can make it about anything you want, I just wanted to experiment with some formats. I’ll work off of whatever scene you set._

And Aziraphale - foolhardy and full to the brim of eager, swelling desire - had set his heart upon the page like a ravaging monster. Had poured himself out, drained himself dry (in more ways than one) and had felt a fearful spark of excitement at the knowledge that after it was all said and done, he wouldn’t have to change a single detail. 

He could keep the sentences which started with ‘ _Dearest_ ’. He could keep the mentions of inviting the character’s mysterious lover to ‘ _sink into me, as deep as you can, until you have forgotten the route back to being without, until you call my body home long after we have returned to ourselves_ ’. He could finish the letter - at that point ten pages long - with a signoff that may have been too much, but had been the most truthful thing he had ever said to Crowley since their fateful night after the garden.

_Sincerely, your Lover. (For that is what I am, even when we are not with one another. No matter what may stand between us, always know that I will continue to be that, for the verb of loving you now defines me beyond my profession, beyond my identity, and consumes all which I do. I do it all loving you.)_

His finger had trembled when he’d pressed the Send button on that particular email. 

In the days that followed, he would jump at the slightest alert from his laptop, would flinch if his phone went off. He always got up, rushed to see if it was Crowley - but it never was. 

The longer it took, the less certain he became. His heart, having expanded and stretched to its limits with the hot air of sweet nothings he’d woven into those lines, was now shrinking again and it was worse for wear because of it, like a deflated balloon. Stretched out and worn down, misshapen and in no way usable. 

In the end, three days later, Crowley had stumbled into his shop, frazzled, and they had both blabbered their way through a myriad of excuses and explanations that somehow all missed their mark and left the both of them exhausted. The email was never mentioned again. The entire thing was neatly swept under the table.

Aziraphale eventually began to write scenes again - milder ones, subtler ones. He had to take his time and work back up to his typical confidence, but he never wrote ‘original drafts’ again. He constructed character masks, hid behind them, and only peeked out occasionally.

Crowley continued to praise his work.

It was enough.

He was not so much a fool as to ask for something twice.

* * *

Amidst their wearing jetlag, Christmas Eve came faster than expected, and the Americans were as busy as ever. Harriet was organizing some sort of dinner, changing her mind on options with a rapidness that would put stock market executives to shame, and Mr. Dowling was maddeningly _not_ attached to any mobile devices, and thus free to wander and pester Aziraphale to his heart’s desire.

The night-time proximity was still isolated to the bed, and Aziraphale was near ready to admit that it was absolutely not relevant in any way and actually just a simple, platonic need for someone as skinny as Crowley to not die of the cold. It was dramatic, sure, but Crowley was dramatic. He had not let up on his somewhat pointed comments about their supposed ‘marriage’, and once, in a very emotionally confusing moment for everyone, even went so far as to make a subtle comment about Aziraphale’s arse at dinner - but that was almost certainly for the sake of seeing Thaddeus Dowling frown in confusion and struggle to buffer a non-homophobic reaction for the next 10 seconds. 

Their cold war was giving him frostbite, and he was looking for the next opportunity to send a metaphorical Laika up into orbit just to make the point that he was _not_ someone to be played with! It was like being blackmailed by two separate entities who wanted to send some sort of code but refused to engage directly. The mixed messages of being viciously cuddled through the night and prodded with snarky comments during the day were beginning to grate on his confidence that he knew where they stood.

Ironically enough - that ended up being the underlying issue. They had no idea where they stood - physically.

One moment they were in the dining room looking over photos of the Dowlings’ son, Warlock, and another they were stepping back into the main hall, ready to try a game of darts before the evening festivities began. 

And then Harriet called from the other end of the room: “Oh, would you look at that!” and pointed upward.

A second before he followed her gesture with his eyes, Aziraphale spied an almost sly grin on her face - and knew immediately that whatever it was she was indicating to would not spell good news for them. 

Sure enough, hung in the doorway on a hook was a bundle of all-too-familiar green branches. 

“Mistletoe!” 

It had not been there yesterday. Or even that morning, Aziraphale was sure of it. Had they not noticed it before? Or was this another one of those American pranks?

Crowly looked back down at the same time as Aziraphale did, except unlike Aziraphale, his expression was indistinguishable behind his glasses. He seemed to linger on the fact, and then directed this blank, shielded gaze at Harriet. 

“That’s not mistletoe, I’m afraid,” he said cooly, sliding his hands into his pockets (discovering they were only an inch deep, and stubbornly keeping the tips of his fingers in there anyway, out of principal). “That’s holly. Mistletoe has thin leaves. White berries. Common mistake.”

 _Oh,_ thought Aziraphale with an unwelcome ping of disappointment that he would never admit to out-loud. _Good catch. Of course._

“Come on Ashtoreth,” Harriet groaned. “It’s the spirit of the thing!”

“Bah Humbug,” grunted Crowley with a stubborn jut of his jaw. “Look, we’re British, I know you Americans are fine with PDA but--”

“But nothing!” Harriet egged, managing to pierce them with her sardonic glare from ten feet away. “It’s Christmas! You two have been arguing an awful lot these past few days--”

“Arguing?! We’re not-- We’re not _arguing_ , we’re _bickering_ \- it’s how we do! Isn’t that right, angel?” Crowley’s shoulders had been climbing steadily and were now somewhere near his ears. “That’s how we... That’s how we communicate.”

“It is,” Aziraphale agreed quietly, still very busy trying to convince himself that Crowley was doing the right thing by protesting.

“Aziraphale doesn’t like that stuff, not-- not in front of people! You’re going to make him have a heart attack. He can’t do this with an audience! He’s delicate.”

“What?! Really now,” Aziraphale huffed, having heard quite enough. It was one thing to give it an effort to deflect the awkward situation - but this was crossing back into the needling territory. To call _him_ delicate? After Crowley was the one falling asleep halfway on his lap every night?

“You’re making me sound senile. It’s not as if I have a-- a problem kissing my own...” His words caught in his throat as his cohort pivoted back to him rapidly. “...my own husband.”

A full body shudder seemed to wreck Crowley, but he held steady, frozen in place by the tension of a coiled spring. “Oh?” he said, and swallowed. “Is that right? Turning over a new leaf, are you, Mister Public-Decency?”

Aziraphale’s lips parted in affronted shock. “Maybe I am!” he announced before he thought better of it, and immediately felt his whole face erupt in heat. _Oh dear_ , he thought in panic. 

Crowley’s face changed color, and presumably now they matched. He was also having trouble choking out a reply that wasn’t a garbled mess of monosyllables. He chewed over a few of them unsuccessfully and then seemed to do his best to lean back into casual nonchalance, as if nothing at all was the matter. “Well. If you’re fine with it.” He cleared his throat. “As they say. When in Rome. Or... er. When in. America.” 

Aziraphale felt like a hole was opening up in his chest. A faultline, years long and worn down by a thousand moments when he’d looked at Crowley across thousands of tables, across thousands of inches, across the room - and thought _maybe just this once_ right before changing his mind and retreating, averting his gaze, reminding himself to stay put.

The earthquake that had shaken them closer together back in the car when they’d put rings onto each other was now coming back in aftershocks, and this time, it was splitting him in the other direction. Pulling them apart, steadily, inch by inch. 

Continental drift.

He had to look up before he realized he had been staring at Crowley’s lips.

 _If you’re fine with it_ , Crowley had said. 

How could he not be? As if he’d ever wanted anything else.

He breathed in slowly. Picked his voice up off of the floor, dusted it with shaking hands, and tried to convince himself to answer. “Right... When in Rome,” he choked out, and grabbed his own fingers to still them against the urge to reach up and pull those sunglasses off. Fold them up. Tuck them into the collar of Crowley’s shirt. Just like the first time. 

Just like the last time.

“It’s tradition, come on!” Harriet called from the other end of the room.

It was clear that despite his brave imitation of unconcerned air, Crowley wasn’t going to move, so Aziraphale took the lead, stepping in closer - bringing them into a proximity they usually avoided. His hand fluttered up - he was about to reach for Crowley’s face, but then thought better of it and retreated back towards his shoulder. A safe place - just like during the dance. Just like during the night. Just like they’d done before now, pretending, putting on an act. Because none of it was technically real. Naturally.

“Really now,” he murmured, stroking the shirt there as if trying to soothe a spooked animal, although if he were being honest, it was for himself as much as anything. “You’re being silly, dear. It’s not as if we haven’t...” He looked up and his words caught in his throat, made a u-turn and scrambled back down his trachea. _Not as if we haven’t kissed before_ , he thought, and even his inner monologue trembled.

Crowley did not move. Even under such immense pressure he was gorgeous - his shoulders sharp, dark cliff edges, his jaw studded with just the hint of a five o’ lock shadow, his furrowed brows tracing a beautiful slope across this worry-creased forehead.

 _Is this taking advantage?_ thought Aziraphale, not for the first time nor the last. They were supposed to be acting married. And married people kissed, didn’t they? That’s what Crowley kept saying. Married couples do this, married couples do that. He was the self-proclaimed expert.

So this was only for the sake of validating their relationship, wasn’t it? It wasn’t as if Aziraphale was gently fixing Crowley’s shirt collar for his own benefit. It wasn’t as if he was looking up at Crowley’s (now parted) lips in order to satisfy the boiling lava lake of urges pooled deep in his own heart. He wasn’t the villain, damn it, they had _agreed!_ They had agreed to play these roles! That was the arrangement. Crowley had said he was fine with it. Crowley had been fine with it. Had been fine with a lot of things. Driving to the airport together. Exchanging rings. Curling up against him every night. Dancing with him.

Surely kissing wasn’t that large of a leap, was it? Just a peck on the cheek.

It felt like a leap. An interstellar one, like light years. It felt like it had taken them millennia to get here. Eons went by as he leaned in, as the scent of Crowley rushed into him like the first gust of spring.

His eyelashes fluttered closed and he breathed in.

A brief moment - and finally, contact. The heat of Crowley’s skin against his. _There you are darling,_ thought Aziraphale through a glass-crack of pain in his chest. _That wasn’t so bad, was it?_

And then reality bent; space-time twisted together for a brief moment and Crowley - Crowley made the softest noise in the back of his throat and turned his head just so, and the place where Aziraphale’s lips brushed his stubby jaw was suddenly replaced with something much softer. 

Crowley’s lips.

An inferno roared in Aziraphale’s ears. His mouth parted, unbidden, tasting the familiar edge where the skin became soft and pliant. For a moment his teeth snagged Crowley’s bottom lip and he felt his hands curl into the soft fabric of the collar he had just straightened, twisting it up again. 

Crowley, for his part, wasn’t pushing him away. In fact he responded - he was letting him in, drawing a startled breath through the gaps where their lips slid together, tasting each other for the first time in ages. He was pressing into Aziraphale’s hold, sneaking a hand up to cup his jaw and making a noise that was somewhere between a whine and a muffled gasp. It wasn’t a bad noise. If Aziraphale had been more of an idiot, he could say it sounded almost the same as it had back when they’d first kissed.

The crack in Aziraphale’s chest moved. Came back together. Millenia flew by. They pressed up against each other, crushed together, a mountain range erupting along the faultline.

 _Yes_ , thought his oxygen-starved brain, gasping in every point of contact between them, licking it up like flames. _Yes, there you are. Come here, please, Closer. Don’t you know how much I want you?_

His ears rang with the memory of six years ago, when he’d been pressing Crowley back against the wall, guiding his fingers under his jaw, holding him. When they had slid up against each other and Crowley had arched into his touch, eager and wanting.

But a small bell was ringing in the back of his head, barely audible over the cacophony of his desire, and with a start he realized that he was taking - perhaps taking too much. He was losing himself, losing his control.

With a fearful start, he forced himself to let go. His fingers uncurled from their padlock grasp on the man’s shirt collar, aching and protesting and kicking and screaming the whole way down. An attempt to skid back across Crowley’s ribs was suppressed with a violent shudder. 

Aziraphale swallowed back a pained groan and cleaved a new crack between them. Felt the air rush into the heated space their bodies had just shared. Waited for the floor to stop swaying. Assessed. 

How many minutes had passed? How many hours had they been locked there, in that moment?!

Harriet said something - he wasn’t sure what it was over the din of the orchestra in his head, but it sounded light, casual. That was good, right? Her voice was far away - Aziraphale’s ears were still pounding with the rushing blood. He was sure he was red in the face - but at least checking Crowley’s condition proved that he was similarly affected. Currently, he was standing with one hand over his mouth and the other in his hair, combing through it nervously. His shirt was still crumpled where Aziraphale had grabbed it - condemning evidence of his own failure. 

“Sorry, I--” Aziraphale glanced back at their host, hoping he could come up with some excuse. “I’m not sure what came over me.”

“You don’t have to be shy,” laughed Harriet, already turning away from them both. “ Still up for a game of darts?”

“Yep,” said Crowley immediately before Aziraphale could even process the entire sentence. He was already brushing past when Aziraphale looked up, and by the time Aziraphale had enough sense to actually mumble a half-hearted reply, he was alone in the hallway with the cursed plant hanging over his head, wondering how they could ever keep this up for another week. 

* * *

Christmas Eve dinner was a personal sort of hell. It was everything he had hated about Christmas dinners since he was a child - unnecessary company, awkward conversations - combined with everything he had come to hate throughout his young adult life - forcefully inserted religious discussions for the sake of ‘the season’ - and topped with the cream of the crop of his most recent fears and worries - that if Crowley had previously retained some semblance of amiability towards him (sexual or platonic) prior to this trip, their continued existence in the same space would surely drive him away permanently. 

It wasn’t that Crowley voiced any concerns - in fact, Crowley voiced nothing at all. Following the kiss he had ceased poking fun at their pretend marriage, had stopped moaning about how many mugs of cocoa Aziraphale left around because he got lost in a book, or how ridiculously picky he was when it came to furniture - and instead began to viciously ignore and avoid conversation at all costs. 

Against all odds, this didn’t affect the dinner greatly. With Thaddeus reinstated to the head of the table, he took the burden of being the center of attention and talked loudly about his own achievements (or those of his various older male relatives). Aziraphale, being plenty accustomed to this type of company, perfected his rusty skills of smiling and nodding at odd intervals to give the impression that he was _definitely_ paying attention and found each recounting of some distant uncles and their lift ride into political power _most_ riveting. 

Harriet Dowling took a bit more effort to convince, but at least Crowley pretended to reply to her in some manner to satisfy her idea of a social participation quota. Sometime around 10, after a second round of dessert (in the sense that Crowley had pushed his own plate of cake towards Aziraphale wordlessly and Aziraphale spent time debating whether or not it was a secret signal, a cry for help, or a meaningless gesture of habit), there was finally a chance to break away from the crowd and they both took it. Even walking back towards their quarters, however, they drifted apart once again, with Crowley paving the way through the dark hallway, side-stepping the colorful, blurry reflection of christmas string lights wrapped around the wooden banisters. Aziraphale trailed a few yards behind, slippers shuffling along the polished floor, and tried not to think too hard about whether or not Crowley would return to his side once they were in bed. 

It was probably better to talk about it, he knew that. Logically he knew that they needed to communicate if they were going to continue their previous plan. Still, it was easier said than done. Crowley clearly wasn’t in the mood, and oh, what if he was just about done with it? What if it really had been too much of Aziraphale to ask of him? What if he’d just accepted the deal back in London out of the need to be polite, but hadn’t actually wanted to go at all? He had already suffered enough under the ridiculous need to act out something he didn’t want to be a part of and that was-- that was fine, Aziraphale could handle that. He was fine with a clear-out rejection. He was fine with Crowley quitting it all and leaving, flying back to London and never talking to him again, he was fine--

He was not fine. 

“Crowley,” he said as soon as he was through the door of their bedroom.

Crowley whirled around where he had been standing by the balcony. Clearly he planned to go out and attempt another cigarette, but the wind was picking up, and the glass of the deck doors was rattling enough to discourage him. 

“Aziraphale,” he replied unevenly. 

“I have to talk to you--” Aziraphale began. 

“Yeah.” Crowley turned to face him, then turned again, completing a full 360 degree rotation. Then, evidently deciding that his brief venture into a career as a dreidel was not going to help matters, he began to pace nervously along the window. “Look, I know what you’re going to say.”

“You do?” asked Aziraphale numbly. This was great news - he, himself, had no ghastly idea. 

“--and I just want to make sure it’s clear - I know I was an idiot. I know. I miscalculated. I thought I could handle it... But clearly I’m not the best at self-regulation, you know that. I know that. We both know that. So that was. That was maybe obvious from the beginning.” Crowley was still pacing, well on his way to wearing track lines into the carpet. “But I think we can both agree - it’s fucked up. And I know it’s not ideal. And I know that-- I know!”

Despite Crowley’s initial statement this made nothing clear, but Aziraphale wasn’t up to a full academic review, especially not when his own head was a chaos of half-formed apologies and excuses.

Still, if he pieced the puzzle together, he could see the general picture coming into view - the things Crowley was saying about miscalculating, about how he’d been an idiot. He’d always put himself down as a form of deflecting, and this was clearly another example of it.

He was regretting all of this. 

He had realized it was a mistake to come with Aziraphale on the trip. 

“Crowley.” Despite the heavy dread settling into the pit of his stomach, his voice was steady when he spoke. “You can’t blame this on yourself. This is my fault - I was the one who asked you to do this--”

Crowley sneered, but the sound came out like the choked wheeze of a wounded animal. “Yeah, well, I bet you didn’t think I’d royally fuck it up not even halfway through--”

“That’s not what I mean! I shouldn’t have asked it of you in the first place!”

“I just wanted to help; I thought I could handle it--”

“--it was too much anyway, after everything else, I must seem like a fool to--”

“--and I swear it won’t happen again if you just give me another chance--”

“--ask you to put on this charade of... wait a minute, what?”

Crowley clenched his jaw, abruptly silent. After a minute of intense staring he reached up, yanked off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“I swear, it won’t happen again,” he repeated. “It was ....mostly... an accident. I didn’t realize you were aiming for my cheek.”

Aziraphale blinked. This conversation was taking U-turns sharper than the Bentley and the familiar passenger side door wasn’t there for him to grip in panic. “Wait, you... I’m afraid you’re going too fast for me,” he admitted, dumbfounded.

Crowley paled. “I know,” he barked out, looking down and beginning to fidget. “Fuck, fuck I just-- I wasn’t prepared for it, and the stupid mistletoe! And I turned my head and you were suddenly right there! I didn’t mean to make it into a whole thing, I just wasn’t expecting you to actually do it! I know I overstepped, I know! You just wanted to do it on the cheek, that makes way more sense now, it really does, but in the moment I wasn’t exactly thinking and I... I panicked!”

Taking a step backwards, Aziraphale sank down to sit on the edge of the bed. “ _You_ panicked?” He was completely lost now, and coming to grips with the fact once and for all.

Crowley twitched one shoulder nervously and a few orphan consonants escaped the tight prison of his clenched teeth. 

“Crowley,” said Aziraphale slowly, “are you upset because... you... turned your head? And we ended up...” He wanted to just say it, but the ghost of some repressed, hormonal teenager seemed to be possessing him and suddenly even the words ‘kissing on the mouth’ was too dirty to say out loud. “Are you under the impression that I’m upset by that...?”

Crowley’s shoulders drooped in defeat, but he looked a bit more hesitant. “Aren’t you?” he asked.

“No!” Aziraphale exclaimed emphatically. Too emphatically, perhaps, because his brain almost made the preparations to keep going with the sentence and explain, in great detail, just how much he was not upset by the upgrade of the kiss. 

Even if it had been - as Crowley said - an accident.

But no, he had to stay focused.

“That wasn’t your fault! It was Harriet, she was the one who set it up! I’m almost sure she put that mistletoe there,” he said, kneading his hands on his lap. “To be completely honest with you I expected this. It’s not as if we could avoid it forever.” He laughed, hoping it sounded easygoing, and then began to doubt himself and instead reached up to rub his hand over his face. “For god’s sake, it’s not as if it’s a big deal! We’ve been fooling them well enough so far, I figured if we make them suspicious now...”

There was a momentary pause. Aziraphale bit his tongue, feeling regret seep into his throat. The Pretend Marriage - of course. It had always been about fooling the Dowlings. Thank goodness he remembered that. Thank goodness he had that excuse. 

Even if it did feel like a stab to the gut. 

“Right,” said Crowley slowly, as if he was going through the same mental gymnastics to make his way across the obstacle course of emotions. “Right, that would be bad.”

“Yes,” agreed Aziraphale awkwardly. 

“We do need to kiss. To fool them.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said again, trying his hardest to keep his voice steady. “I mean, we don’t have to! Not-- not all the time.”

“Obviously,” Crowley hurried to say. “Just. Sometimes.”

“At least when it seems natural.”

Crowley nodded again and glanced back out the window. “Of course. No need to overdo it.”

Feeling another lump in his throat, Aziraphale hurriedly tore his eyes away.

What counted as overdoing it? What happened under the mistletoe - had that been overdoing it? Crowley certainly seemed to think so. It was a relief that he wasn’t personally uncomfortable - though perhaps he still was, and only distracting from it for Aziraphale’s sake. Either way, where was the boundary? 

They needed to talk about it. They needed to just work it out. How much was okay? How much wasn’t okay? Kissing - clearly that was fine. Sometimes. What about touching? How much touching? Handholding? Hugging? Sliding his arm around Crowley’s waist when he was close, as he had been wanting to do for the past few days? 

What about cuddling in bed? Running his fingers through Crowley’s hair as he dozed off? Feeling the other press his face into his side and reach to wrap his arms around him? He wasn’t prepared to let go of that.

They needed to talk. He needed to ask. He needed to open his mouth and--

“I’m not going tomorrow,” said Crowley suddenly.

Aziraphale looked up, lower lip still stuck in his teeth (he’d been chewing it without even realizing). “Pardon?” he asked. 

“The service,” muttered Crowley. His gaze was directed at the floor. “Christmas Service. I’m not going with you. You were talking with Harriet about going to that church in the nearby town, and I’m not--”

“Oh, yes, of course,” Aziraphale said hurriedly. “I know that.”

Crowley let out a soft hiss of air through his nostrils. “Thanks,” he muttered. 

The window shuddered once more under the pressure of the wind. 

“Well,” said Crowley. “Good talk.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of an emotionally charged chapter. 
> 
> I keep saying that I want to keep this mostly light - I'm not one for characters yelling and getting angry at one another. But these two have a lot of bad habits built up over 6 years of Not Talking About It so it might take them a bit to learn new ways to cope.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one is a rollercoaster of emotions, but everything is okay in the end.

* * *

The night had been long and rather lonely. Following their conversation Aziraphale hadn’t the peace of mind about him to read anything so instead he slid under the covers while Crowley showered and by the time the man came out he was already dozing. He felt the bed creak and then - nothing. 

Crowley did not edge closer. He did not attempt physical contact like the previous few nights. 

Instead they lay parallel to each other in the darkness, listening to the glass rattle as the wind whipped in from the mountains, sloughing snow against the windows. 

And that was fine. Aziraphale was fine with it. He did sleep fitfully, and he was plagued by the sensation that he had been a coward and a fool to not discuss things outright, but that was what he deserved. 

_ I’ll talk to him in the morning _ , he thought to himself around 2am, and then around 3, and then 4. Around 5 in the morning he almost rolled over and shook Crowley awake, just about ready to yell ‘ _ What is it?! Where is the limit?! How much can I get away with before you hate me?! _ ’ 

But he didn’t. 

Instead he tossed and turned until six, read the news on his phone until seven, and then trudged off to take a shower and prepare for the Christmas service. 

At 9, he boarded the Downlings’ vehicle and tried not to think about how he and Crowley hadn’t spoken a word to each other all morning. Instead he focused on the outing and the holiday cheer and tried to convince himself it would be a welcome break, a nice change of scenery. 

The ride took a full hour and they were nearly late because of how slippery the roads were. The town itself was pleasant enough - quaint and picturesque, with lovable American roadside attractions. It had a sizable Lutheran church, which the Dowlings seemed more or less familiar with. The attending people were just as quaint as the town itself, though it was possible they were normal by American standards. 

The service was lovely, and relatively short in comparison to mass, but the pastor did go on some very questionable tangents of the right-wing variety invoking the apostle Peter, which immediately activated Aziraphale’s old-buried reflex to bring up the book of Acts which featured the same Peter in a very un-American act of striking a man dead for not participating in divine socialism. He resisted the urge, and then resisted the consequent urge to miss Crowley and lament the fact that, were they on normal speaking terms, this would be the perfect opportunity to lure the man into another one of his entertaining rants.

By the time they’d returned to the house, around 2 in the afternoon, Aziraphale was just about ready to throw in the towel. He headed upstairs as soon as they returned but still had to talk himself into opening the door to the bedroom like he was sneaking back in after a guilty night out. All of his anxiety and uncertainty was so stacked on this single action that the inevitable anti-climax of the room being empty did not even occur to him as a possibility.

Evidently he was not the only one who had suffered an emotional breakdown, because judging by the state of things, Crowley had been stress cleaning. The floor was free of scattered socks, the suitcases had been pushed into the corner and the bed was made and tucked in so tightly one might suspect a maid had done it. And perhaps, given where they were staying, Aziraphale  _ would _ have thought that much - if it wasn’t for the festively-wrapped black box on top of the pillow on his side. 

He approached, heart fluttering, and picked up the decorative card on top and flipped it open to read. It had merely a few lines scribbled on it, but the familiarity of the gesture was enough to wane some of his worries.

_ Happy Appropriated Pegan Solstice Holiday. - A. _

Curious, he untied the scarlet ribbon and slipped the top off, balancing it precariously on one arm. Inside there seemed to be some sort of beige garment. It was folded in such a way that was difficult to recognize - but it was suspiciously familiar. 

On top was another small card with the words; ‘ _ Told ya I could do it. _ ’

Aziraphale’s heart jumped excitedly into his throat before he had even set the box down. When he lifted out the coat - for it was a coat - he couldn’t contain the gasp before it was on his lips. “Oh,  _ darling _ ,” he whispered to himself, inspecting the heirloom vintage he had kept in pristine condition ever since he’d acquired it - until a recent summertime trip down to the coast had gotten him and Crowley in a spot of trouble and had earned him a sizeable stain of paint on the shoulder. 

That stain was gone now. It was good as new - well, new as it could be, which was still well worn. But it was clean, as if the stain had never been there. He’d lamented about it the whole ride back to London. How had Crowley even known where he’d put it? When had he gone rifling through his stuff, the devil?

But despite these multiple questions, and Crowley’s indubitably shady methods of getting his way, the gesture had nonetheless sent Aziraphale into a weightless state of bliss comparable to how their kiss had made him feel, with none of the guilt. 

At the very least Crowley wasn’t mad. He still cared, at least in some small way, and it was enough to spur the tiny flicker of hope inside of Aziraphale’s chest into a warm, crackling flame of courage. 

Fueled by this heat like a steam engine, Aziraphale headed off to find the man and thank him - and apologize, and perhaps even to talk, if the first two went well enough to get that far. He was uncharacteristically optimistic and, despite his relatively impressive sleep deprivation, also rejuvenated as if nothing at all had been the matter.

Much to his disappointment, Crowley was not in the downstairs living space - and he was not, apparently, in the upstairs lobby where the dart boards and pool tables were. He was not anywhere, in fact, and Aziraphale was beginning to worry until one of the staff informed him that Crowley had left a few hours prior and had taken the car with him. 

“Did he say where he was going?” Aziraphale asked. 

“No,” admitted the woman. “But he did ask us about ski resorts. Asked if there was a place to go snowboarding.”

Aziraphale frowned. “Is there?”

“Sure, about forty minutes from here,” she replied. “The lifts won’t be moving since it’s Christmas day but there’s an old man who minds the cabin there, lives alone. He has a snowmobile on him, and he usually gives rides up the mountain to those that can pay.”

“But he doesn’t have a snowboard,” protested Aziraphale to the woman, who merely shrugged as if to say ‘ _ how is that my problem? _ ’

“I imagine if Old Bart took a liking to him, he might have unlocked the rental shop as well. It’s a stretch but... he seemed pretty determined when he left.”

Feeling pacified for the moment, Aziraphale thanked her and went back upstairs. Not having Crowley there may have been a blessing in disguise. This gave him a chance to organize his thoughts and get all his ducks in a row. First he pulled out his computer to get some work done and answer a few prying emails from Gabriel and finally - around 3:30 - sat down to try to write his feelings in a coherent manner. 

He did this on paper, if only for the physical satisfaction of tearing out each page and crumpling it when he found the lines inadequate. Before long the entire fireplace was filled to the brim with tightly-compressed white balls and the light by which he was penning his melancholic iterations of ‘ _ My Dearest Crowley, I know we have not exactly talked about this... _ ’ and ‘ _ Crowley, my treasured platonic associate, it pains me to say this but I’m afraid I’ve been rather unclear with you regarding our pretend relationship _ ...’ and ‘ _ Crowley, you absolute fiend, with all due respect - what, pray, the fuck, is going through your mind??? _ ’ was becoming scarce. 

Finally, he tore out the last page of the spiral bound notebook he had on him and looked up and through the window. The time was past four - and the sun was going down over the line of trees on the horizon. 

Crowley was still not back. 

_ Now, now, that’s not reason enough to panic yet _ , thought Aziraphale, and promptly began to panic anyway. He did so silently first, standing up and pacing between the fireplace and the piano. Then he graduated onto muttering as he headed back into the main hall to peek out the front windows, hoping to spy familiar headlights approaching too fast. When this also failed, he went to fetch Harriet, who went to fetch the staff again, who went to fetch the groundskeeper to ask for the phone number of the old man who lived on the mountain. 

When they finally had it, the time was nearly 5. The first time they called there was no answer - but the second time the line connected. 

An asthamatic, scratchy tone of an octogenarian graced the line. “Y’ellow,” he wheezed. 

“Bart, old pal, it’s me,” said the groundskeeper into the speakerphone. “Listen, I got a question for ya. Didn’t happen to have a man come by to use the mountain today, didja?”

Old Bart coughed into the receiver once. “A man? Aw, yeah. Now that y’mention it. Did come by. Young guy.”

“How young?” Aziraphale asked impatiently. 

“Whozzat?” Bart grunted. “Ya got a funny accent.”

“Just someone who’s looking for his--” The groundskeeper scratched his head.

“Husband,” Aziraphale inserted, perhaps a bit testily, because he was running low on patience. “I’m looking for my husband. The man you saw - what did he look like?”

There was a pause, and an almost audible shrug from the receiver. “Eh, y’know. A biker I guess. Red hair. Hippie like. Wore sunglasses.” Bart coughed again. “Took one of m’boards and asked me to give him a lift up the trail.”

The party gathered around the phone exchanged a few looks. 

“When was that...?” Aziraphale asked again.

“About two hours ago,” said Bart. “Or three. I was nappin, so I wasn’t really keepin’ track.”

“So he’s not back?” asked Harriet. 

The man on the other end of the line hummed. “I told ‘im to jus’ leave the board against the door when he was done. Don’t really know. S’pose I could check now. Give me a minute here folks.”

As the receiver clattered down on some unseen surface, Aziraphale took a deep breath. He was not ready to deal with this. He wasn’t even sure where to start. What if Crowley had been hurt? What if he’d fallen and broken a limb? How were they going to find him? Who could they call?!

A painfully long two minutes later, the other end of the line crackled with static again and Old Bart’s chainsmoker voice returned. “No board,” he said shortly. 

Harriet glanced up, saw Aziraphale pale visibly, and her eyes sharpened. “What do you mean no board?” she demanded in her Let Me Speak To Your Manager voice. 

“No board that I can see,” Old Bart repeated. “It’s windy as hell out there, so can’t see much of anything, granted. But it don’t look like he’s back yet.”

“But it’s dark--” Aziraphale choked out. “The sun set an hour ago. How can he not be back?! Where is he? What if he’s lost? What if he’s--” His chest tightened painfully and he took a step back, putting his hand over his mouth. 

“I’ll hafta call the patrol,” Old Bart said, unaware of the mental breakdown happening on the other end of the line. “Might take some time, though. They can get down here in an hour, I reckon.”

Aziraphale closed his eyes, beginning to shiver with dread. 

An hour was too long. It was Christmas day - people got hurt all throughout the holiday season, and no doubt whatever emergency services were available at this time of year were busy. They were miles away from any hospital. It was pitch black and Crowley was somewhere in the mountains. How could they find him? Where could they even start looking?!

What if it was already too late?

_ This cannot be happening _ , he thought numbly. It absolutely wasn’t. This was a dream. This was a nightmare. He was going to wake up, he was going to wake up right now, damnit, and none of this would be real. Crowley would be back. He would be safe. Not-- 

Not...

He screwed his eyes shut tightly.  _ Dear Lord, please, no _ , he prayed.  _ Don’t take him from me. Not him. Anything - literally anything else _ .

Outside, there was a thud. 

Aziraphale’s eyes burst open. Harriet and the groundskeeper were still gathered around the phone on the desk, saying something, but none of the words filtered through. Instead, as if compelled by some other force, he looked at the front door. 

_ Please _ , he begged again, silently. 

The door handle turned. 

Aziraphale was halfway across the room by the time Crowley stepped through. Without even allowing the other to get fully inside, he had his hands fisted in the man’s jacket. A split second later and he yanked Crowley into an embrace, crushing him tightly to his chest, not even caring about the noises of shocked protest and the snow shaken free from his hair. 

“Azira-- What...?!”

“Thank god,” Aziraphale gasped, voice cracking at the edges. “You idiot!! You absolute-- You stupid--” He yanked Crowley away for a moment and grabbed his face instead. Crowley’s eyes stared back at him from above the sunglasses, which had slid down his nose. His face was slightly red from wind-burn, but whole and unharmed.

“I’m going to kill you,” Aziraphale choked out nasally, and kissed him instead. 

Crowley made a startled noise into his mouth but did not otherwise protest. For a moment they pressed close, and then Aziraphale pulled away again, leaving them both slightly more pink than before and absolutely flabbergasted. For someone who had initiated the action for the second time, Aziraphale seemed no less qualified to explain why he’d done it. Crowley, for the equal number of times he’d been on the receiving end of such rash decisions, was similarly uncertain of how to react to them. 

“Right then,” he choked out. “‘Ello.”

Aziraphale’s jaw tightened and his mind abruptly recalibrated. “Try again.”

The gears in Crowley’s head seemed to be turning. “Sorry...?” he ventured.

“You better be!” Aziraphale snapped, finally releasing him from his iron grip and firing up his most scalding glare instead. “What were you thinking?! Going out on the mountain by yourself?! On a public holiday? Do you have a death-wish?”

“No, I-- shit. I just thought I’d get a run in.” The realization that he was in trouble seemed to be properly dawning on him. “The guy at the bottom gave me a board and a lift on his snowmobile.”

“Yes, we know.” Aziraphale was now vibrating from a cocktail of excess adrenaline and relief. “And when we called him he said you still hadn’t returned the snowboard! The sun set an hour ago!”

Crowley shifted from one foot to another, appropriately sheepish for once in his life. “Yeah, I uh. I kind of. Lost it.” He paused and, when Aziraphale said nothing else, kept going: “See, everything was fine until about halfway down. The wind started getting quite bad, and I think I took a wrong turn. Visibility was shit. Before I know it I’m doing a tree run, completely off the trail. It was fine for a while, but just when I thought I might be able to get out of there, I kind of. Fell into a tree well.”

Aziraphale groaned in horror and rubbed his face.

Looking, if possible, even more guilty, Crowley kept going. “Luckily it wasn’t that deep and I went in feet first. Still, I had to unstrap the board to crawl out and just leave it there. By the time I found the groomed track it was nearly sundown, and I kind of just decided that I had to hike back to the car. Which I did. So. Here we are.” He sniffed quietly.

Feeling the tension beginning to rise again, Harriet stepped forward. “That was very stupid, but I’m glad you’re alright.”

“ _ Are _ you alright?” demanded Aziraphale sharply. “You didn’t get hurt, did you? Bones? Frostbite?”

“All in one piece, Angel,” promised Crowley with uncanny softness. “Just exhausted, really.”

“You’re lucky it was just that.” Aziraphale said icily, though his tone was not making it secret that Crowley would need a fair bit more fortune to keep it that way where he was concerned.

As if sensing this, Harriet stepped in again. She petted Aziraphale’s arm soothingly and then suggested they both get upstairs, since Crowley still looked very cold after his winter hike. There weren’t many options left except to relent, and soon they were alone in their section of the cottage again, having been promised that their dinner would be brought directly to the room. 

Crowley, for all the worried glances he was throwing in Aziraphale’s direction, was shockingly unwilling to stray too far. Maybe he was afraid that he would get yelled at again, or maybe Aziraphale looked worse than he thought. He certainly felt bad enough - after the complete lack of sleep the night before and the unplanned grip of terror that evening, he was looking forward to rolling into bed more than he had looked forward to anything else since the beginning of their trip. 

“Go get changed,” said Aziraphale after they shuffled into the bedroom. “I’ll run you a hot bath - you’re almost certainly going to catch a cold after that little field trip.”

“I can do it myself,” came the expected protest, but Aziraphale cut him off with a series of impatient tuts and dismissive gestures. Realizing he was not in a position to argue, the man slunk off towards his suitcase to shed his clothes. Aziraphale, meanwhile, headed to the bathroom to fill the tub. 

On the one hand, it had been a bit of an over-reaction. Not in the sense that Crowley hadn’t been in danger - he definitely had been; tree wells were the leading cause of death on mountains - but in how he’d reacted upon his return. Certainly grabbing the man and attempting to break all his ribs on the front step wasn’t the most lucid of his ideas but Aziraphale hadn’t been functioning on logic. 

And certainly, kissing the said man was not entirely a paint-by-numbers idea either, but at least he could disguise it under some half-baked excuse of ‘keeping up appearances’ for their marriage, though that, too, was about as good of a cover-up as ‘Pay No Attention To The Man Behind The Curtain’.

He hadn’t been thinking about anything - anything at all. Fear, relief, intense joy had driven him to be some sort of mad animal craving the emotional catalyst of physically feeling Crowley in his arms, proving to himself that it wasn’t a hallucination, that everything really was going to be okay. 

But if it hadn’t been? What would he have done then?

_ Not him _ , his mind echoed unhelpfully. It had been a frantic prayer, the most truthful one he’d done in years.  _ Anything, you can take anything, but don’t take him _ .

“Alright?” Crowley said softly from behind him. 

Aziraphale jerked his head out of his hands, where he’s been cradling it as he leaned over the edge of the bathtub. He must have looked like he’d been asleep, sitting on the floor droopily. 

“Yes,” he mumbled. “Get in.”

Crowley’s footsteps approached, but nothing else happened, so Aziraphale deigned to raise his eyes - and found himself staring at a modesty towel wrapped around the man’s middle. 

“Er,” Crowley said eloquently by way of an explanation. 

On any other day, at any other hour, Aziraphale would have cared. But not today. Not now. He was beyond it. He was too tired, and whatever part of his mind responsible for... for... whatever it was he was usually so scared of - it was not currently functioning. 

“Nothing I haven’t seen before,” he said and glanced back at the tub, reaching to turn off the tap. 

There was an awkward clearing of the throat, then silence, and then the towel dropped to the floor. Another second, and Crowley stepped over the edge of the tub and sank into the hot water with a low but satisfied hiss. 

“Trying to boil me alive?” he asked.

Aziraphale snorted. “What for? You’re skin and bone.”

“Lean meat,” countered Crowley. 

“Gabriel would be proud; he’s been trying to convince me to go on a diet for ages.”

At that there was an indignant splash, and the voice cracked. “No-- That’s not what I--  _ Fuck that guy _ , Angel, you know that’s not--”

“Hush, I know,” breathed Aziraphale tiredly, and flopped his arms into each other across the edge of the tub, sliding down a bit to pillow his chin on top of them. His eyes made their belated move to Crowley, skimming the edge of the water where his knobby knees made their modest appearance like two islands rising out of the sea. Beyond them, the border of his chest rose up, a scattering of rust-colored chest hair sneaking its way up nearly into the collarbones. The slope of his shoulders, elegant and sharp, angling wayside - their border broken just slightly by the tips of the hair that hung down from his face. It was less curled than usual, having survived quite the ordeal inside a hat, and how clung to the shape of Crowley’s skull in mute protest. With his glasses off he seemed even more defenseless, sharp cheeks and nose, and sharp teeth gnawing at the inside of his mouth, and sharp chin jutting out stubbornly towards Aziraphale.

“You look like death warmed over,” said Crowley.

Aziraphale snorted. “You’re one to talk.”

“I’m fine, no need to fuss,” Crowley muttered. 

“I’m not fussing--”

“You are. You should sleep, you don’t have to wait here, I’m sure you’re tired of me--”

With a deep breath, Aziraphale lifted his eyes to the gold ones again. “Crowley,” he said quietly.

Seemingly eager to end another bout of awkward silence, Crowley sucked in a breath through his teeth and squinted at the water. “Right. So. Change of topic. Did you see the uh.”

It was more than enough to make himself understood. Aziraphale had practice. “The coat? Yes, of course. I’m... I’m beyond grateful, Crowley. It’s perfect.” He wasn’t made of stone - he couldn’t help the recurring flare of fond gratitude. “But changing the subject won’t let you off the hook.”

Crowley slipped a little further down into the water, preliminary guilt eating away at his expression right before he shoved his hands over his face, rubbing at his eyes. He held them there, but when Aziraphale said nothing else, a panic lever seemed to trigger a fight-or-flight instinct which, in Crowley, manifested as Talk-or-Walk. He chose to talk - rapidly. “I’m sorry,” he began again, nerves crackling between words. “I know it was stupid, I know. I wasn’t thinking. I wanted to do something semi-foolish, wanted to get some sort of rush... I needed to get out of the house and get some fresh air. I didn’t think about the weather, and I didn’t plan, and I didn’t make good choices and I know I ended up jeopardizing your trip--”

“ _ My trip _ ?”

The ricochet was so strong Crowley froze instantly and finally looked up. In front of him, Aziraphale was sitting up straighter. 

“My trip?!” he repeated, incredulous. “Is that what you think this is about?”

Crowley blinked. “Er,” he said. “Isn’t it?”

Channeling the eternal, meditative patience that had gotten him through mass many a time, Aziraphale took a deep breath. He lifted his eyes to the heavens, tried to think of something to say and, failing that, simply went with “Lord give me strength.” 

Crowley sank a few inches deeper into the water. “Aziraphale--”

Not letting him finish, Aziraphale held up a hand and then pushed on the edge of the tub and heaved himself to his feet. “Anthony J. Crowley,” he began in what was his softest (and most terrifying) voice, “Although it is true that I had many goals in undertaking this journey, losing your company to a quick and untimely death was not one of them. So book deal or no, I would prefer you keep yourself alive. If only for my sake.”

Sloshing the water out of the tub a bit, Crowley curled tighter around himself and looked stubbornly anywhere but up. “‘Course,” he mumbled. “For your sake. Yeah.”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale sighed, and pivoted on his foot, waddling to the door. He pulled it open and was about to exit when Crowley made a noise behind him. Turning to follow it to the source, he found the man had tipped his head back on the edge of the tub and was staring at the ceiling. “So,” he said, and cleared his throat awkwardly. “Am I sleeping on the couch tonight...?”

Aziraphale regarded him quietly. “No,” he said finally, pursing his lips. “You’re sleeping next to me, where I can keep an eye on you lest you get another one of your urges to run off unaccompanied into the wilderness.”

In reply, Crowley simply went red and made some sort of acknowledging noise. As this was good enough for Aziraphale in his current sleep-deprived state, the author said nothing else and exited the bathroom. He ate dinner by himself - most uncharacteristically of all, standing - in front of the balcony and watching the winter storm tear through the scenery like a rubber wiping out whole swaths of canvas. His mind was similarly afflicted, with large chunks of it either blurred with a storm of inexplicable emotional exhaustion, and others having already been wiped completely clean.

Did Crowley really think he was only worried about ruining their trip? Beyond simply being a ludicrous idea - any human life was absolutely more important than some bloody book - it also hinted at something much more concerning. A peek into Crowley’s thinking process, a glimpse of how he’d constructed this entire scenario. To him, was Aziraphale simply in this for the money? For the fame? Did he assume his being here was nothing more than convenience? Did he truly think that, beyond a surface level of friendly cooperation, his presence in Aziraphale’s life was a means to an end? 

Aziraphale stared through the glass, hands trembling acutely and biting his lip. For not the first time, nor the last, he thought:  _ You should tell him.  _

But he couldn’t. Not after everything else he’d already done. With Crowley having reacted so poorly the first time around, who knew what would happen if they had another falling-out? It was better, then, to wait until later. Maybe after this was all over Aziraphale could confess. Bring it up - maybe over some wine. Maybe in a month. Or a year, when the wound wasn’t fresh.  _ Oh, you remember that trip? _ he would say.  _ The one we went on to America? _

And Crowley would say  _ I’d rather not. _

_ Oh, _ Aziraphale would say then, his mouth going dry. _ Of course. _

And Crowley would soften, maybe take pity on him. In this fantasy, he would not be driven away at this point. He would not hate Aziraphale - not yet. He would allow the other to dig that hole himself. Allow him to open his mouth and say 

_ You know, it’s a funny story, actually. The reason - the whole reason I asked you to come with me on that trip, you see, I never actually-- I never actually told you, my dear, it’s-- It’s because... _

Aziraphale snapped back to the present with a shiver. No, he couldn’t do it. This was no daydream. He was not the hero of this story - he was the villain. The architect of a terrible plot.

The Crowley in his mind - the one from the future - frowned. _ Because what? _ When Aziraphale didn’t answer, he smiled sadly.  _ Just as well, _ the spectre said.  _ People always assume we’re together when we go to restaurants. Should at least put it to good use, am I right?  _

And then he would sip his wine, and Aziraphale would return, once more, to his own personal Purgatory, and say nothing. 

He would climb under the blanket and cover himself up to his head and close his eyes and hope that he might one day wake up braver than he was. 

* * *

The first time someone mistook them for a couple (second, technically, though he mentally reset the counter after Schrodinger’s Shag to make himself feel better), Aziraphale had the sense to act shocked and appalled. He had the sense to deny it, vehemently, with an awkward smile, waving his hands at the young customer and saying ‘No, no, it’s not-- it’s not like that at all. We hardly even know each other!’ before all but pushing her physically out of his bookshop and closing the door.

The third time, when the waiter made the assumption of not splitting their check, he refrained from making a show of protesting it loudly on reflex, if only to spare himself the ordeal of watching Crowley shrug into his shoulders and stare forlornly into the distance.

The ninth time, when the barista said “And anything for your boyfriend?” he merely glanced in Crowley’s general direction, visually confirmed that yes, the man was still occupied with drawing little caricatures on the glass of the stock photo frames in the display cases, and then recited to her a request for a soy milk caramel latte he’d memorized (completely on accident of course).

Eventually, when the attendant taking his coat at the opera check in had said “What about your... ah... brother?” Aziraphale stared him down with a look of such offended disbelief that he immediately apologized and asked if they would like their things under the same token, to which Aziraphale replied primly in the affirmative. He had ignored the way Crowley seemed to glow at the edges for the rest of the night and wrote it off to the Arts being underfunded and skirting on replacing overhead lights in the reception area. 

So yes, maybe the pretending was not really a novel idea, but it was also clearly not a serious sentiment. They both knew there was nothing between them, it was just easier to go with the flow instead of outright denying it every single time. 

Besides, the sort of functions they showed up to rarely posed a risk of anyone identifying him. After his climb to fame in the greater literary community they had taken to being more careful, limited their outings to being strictly at night and to establishments that would not allow anyone to glimpse his face for too long, but by then the habit was already well formed. It wasn’t like it happened often - but when it did, they had an unspoken agreement to just accept it as a byproduct of their non stop stream of soft bantering and Aziraphale’s reflex to correct Crowley’s jacket collar whenever it was uneven (which was suspiciously often).

And if it warmed Aziraphale on the inside, and made him feel a little less lonely - well, Crowley didn’t have to know that. Aziraphale’s games of pretend couldn't hurt him. It was a victimless crime, a little white lie, an indulgence of the imagination for the few hours they would steal away as ‘theirs’. 

The only time Crowley ever said anything was when Aziraphale, following one of their late-night walks in along the river, ducked into a pub and then began to lament wanting to see a mid-day concert in the park, only to immediately dismiss the idea outright for fear of being seen together. 

“I could go in drag,” Crowley had offered, only half-jokingly. “Dust off the old heels.”

“They’re not that dusty, you wore them two weeks ago,” Aziraphale replied without looking up from the menu. “And no, I am not about to stoop so low as to unwittingly reenact the Birdcage for the sake of Mahler.”

“Then you could just go without me,” Crowley suggested. 

Aziraphale locked his eyes on a line in the Dessert section and kept them there, biting down on the tip of his tongue. “No,” he said at last, with as much casualty as he was able to muster. “Now that I’m thinking about it, I don’t have time. I ought to be writing anyway.”

Crowley leaned back in his seat, looking too smug for Aziraphale’s liking. “What are you so busy with?”

“Still haven’t caught up on the deadline for a rework of the piece for the Traveling Light magazine.”

“Is that the one you’re not letting me touch?” Crowley asked. “The one from your week trip to Japan - about that little town that claims Jesus escaped the crucifixion and ran away to - where was it again...?”

“Aomori,” Aziraphale huffed. “And yes, I’ll handle it myself, thank you.”

Suppressing a chortle into his cup of coffee, Crowley took pity and changed the subject. “What about the others? You said you wanted me to add some flair to that short fiction piece - the one about St. Peter’s Cross?”

“Ah, yes, that one I do need help with.” Mollified, Aziraphale emerged from behind his menu with a concentrated crinkle between his eyebrows. “You’re far better at spreading the philosophical butter than I am. I have a half-baked spiel about the symbology of inversion as it persists in Western settings and the dichotomy of inverted ideas in the general sense but I’m rather at a loss for where to lead it.”

“Am I allowed to delve into symbols of LaVeyan Satanism as an exploratory side lecture? Or at least as recommended reading?”

“What did I say last time?” Aziraphale asked, giving him a pointed look.

“You said no.”

“Then no.” Aziraphale snapped the menu open again. “Unless you want your modern Zorro ripoff to give up his vigilante lifestyle and develop a sudden interest in becoming a celibate monk.”

“But then who would solve the mystery of the underground sex cult?” Crowley pouted. “And what about poor Alexandra? What would she do without him? ”

“Meet a more competent lesbian lover,” Aziraphale replied. “One who actually knows what shibari is, and doesn’t assume the G-spot is spy code for ‘an area with really good cell phone reception’.”

There was the sputtering choking down of startled laughter and Crowley leaned forward, elbows on the table and chin cupped in his palms. “You have the best ideas,” he said with a smile that Aziraphale couldn’t look at for too long. “How will I ever repay you?”

Seeing the waiter approaching, Aziraphale closed the menu and wiggled in his seat, deciding it was his turn to look smug. “You’re going to order the Salted Caramel and Chocolate Tart so I can try it, because I can’t decide between that and the Victoria Sponge Cake.” 

After four years of coexistence in all manner of tiny bars and restaurants and backstreet cafes, perhaps it could be written off to habit, but he couldn’t help but feel a spark of warmth when Crowley ordered both items obediently - and then tacked on an Irish coffee which Aziraphale had been thinking of getting. 

It was pleasant to be appreciated, and he always felt warm under the sunshine rays of that sly, tempting grin when the man laid the compliments on thick. He could almost imagine that he was, for a brief and fleeting moment, indispensable. 

Of course, the feeling never lasted long. The night would end, they would part ways - and the fleeting fantasy of romance would dissipate into its real form as the stinging cold of realistic loneliness. 

When it came down to it, he knew he needed Crowley much more than Crowley needed him.

* * *

He didn’t know what time it was when he woke up, but it was not morning. Outside, the storm was picking up again and the deck rail was nearly invisible in the flurry of white. Aziraphale watched it for a moment, wondering if that had been what woke him, but a stirring a few feet away proved otherwise.

Crowley was moving somewhere on the opposite end of the bed. As Aziraphale’s sleep-muddled mind caught up to the noises, he recognized them one by one - shuffling, irritated huffing and a continuous readjusting of blankets. Crowley flopped over onto his stomach and then tucked his face into his own pillow again. Through the cover his eyelashes provided, Aziraphale could see his chest rising and falling. It wasn’t entirely steady - sometimes his breath would hitch and then he would sigh impatiently. At one point he reached down to scratch at something under the covers. A few times, he shifted himself onto his side, but then once more returned to his original position- face-down on the mattress. 

Maybe it was an unpleasant dream, but there was something to the way Crowley was clenching his jaw, and the way he would hiss an aggravated sigh through his nostrils, that hinted otherwise. 

He could have just let it go - could have rolled over and closed his eyes and fallen back into a much less interesting dream of his own. But he was almost rested for once, properly relaxed, and the darkness of the room was inviting, safe. And he missed Crowley - missed seeing him like this, without the edge of awkward uncertainty bracketing their every move. 

The night-time, as always, felt like a liminal space, felt like something not quite real, with fuzzy edges to contrast the sharp cut of daylight. Aziraphale found himself, inexplicably, missing that feeling. It was like the cover of a dimly lit bar and a back table where no one could see them. It was like the corner of an orchestra house, a back row where no prying eyes could spy their peaceful coexistence. It was safe darkness, taking them under their wing, hiding them. Whispering  _ ‘it’s alright, no one is watching. You can be yourselves here. There are no rules. _ ’

It had been so simple - those six years. It had been painful, too, but at least they had their rituals. At least they knew what the limits were. What to do and what not to do. They had guidelines to follow, and traditions to keep, and everything was... well, if not  _ good _ , then at least tolerable. Predictable.

In contrast to that, these past few days he felt like he’d been wandering around blind. He had his habits shaken loose, he had been given the reins to a cart with the horse already far behind it. He had been overwhelmed by the freedom of all of his previous forbidden joys. He had gotten cocky. 

Perhaps he was Icarus. Perhaps the wings that he had wanted for so long had allowed him to fly too close to the sun. Perhaps this would be his fall. 

A few feet away, Crowley sighed. His back was to Aziraphale, which meant he didn’t have to close his eyes, didn’t have to pretend to sleep. He could watch the way the red hair spilled over the pillow, the way the neck muscles jumped just a bit as the other dreamed - if he was dreaming. Or shivering.

_ Are you cold? _ thought Aziraphale.  _ Are you cold without me? Do you need me? _

He wanted to be needed. At least if he burned, he could offer something, some semblance of warmth. Some good could come from his hubris, from his wretched dream of reaching a star he was never meant to approach. He could live with that. 

He reached out. 

Crowley stilled at the first touch of his hand on the back of his neck. He stilled, but he did not pull away, which allowed the courage Aziraphale was rationing to grow from a trickle into a stream. When he edged closer, Crowley slowly shifted back into him until eventually Aziraphale could put his arm around the other and draw him in, Crowley’s back flush to his chest. Their bodies fit together in a bittersweet familiar way he thought he should not remember but somehow did. 

He slid his hand around Crowley’s waist - and the man’s breath hitched. Aziraphale paused, reconsidered, began to draw back but then there were fingers gripping his own and Crowley was pulling him back and tucking himself with a sudden urgency against the soft shape of Aziraphale’s body, spine to chest. 

For a few moments they breathed together. Aziraphale’s nose skimmed the back of his neck, his lips tickled by the stray hairs pinched there. Their fingers remained locked somewhere beneath the bedsheets.

A hiss rattled its way nervously from between Crowley’s teeth and he shuddered. It was a release of tension, some sort of wordless curse, some sort of unspoken blessing. Aziraphale had taken a chance and had guessed correctly. Here, in the safe darkness of their bedroom, they had fit against each other, and everything, for one brief moment, was just as before. 

Just as it had been six years before... before everything had gone pear-shaped. 

Before there was anything to be afraid of. Anything to regret. 

It was Aziraphale’s turn to draw in a shaky breath. His lips parted, unbidden, and before he could quite understand what he, himself, was doing, he was pressing his mouth to the back of Crowley’s shoulder. 

Crowley hissed again - louder. His fingers squeezed on Aziraphale’s, a positive sign, but before Aziraphale could repeat the action he was in motion again, writhing. 

Aziraphale’s heart, ever ready for rejection, dropped and he let go... only to suddenly find his arms full of Crowley again, only now they were facing each other. They were barely a few inches apart, and Crowley’s eyes were open and  _ fuck _ \--

_ Fuck _ , his eyes were so open. Unguarded by glasses, and by daylight. Unguarded and desperate and... scared. Uncertain. 

There was nowhere to run to. The storm was raging outside. They were both trapped here - and Aziraphale wasn’t planning to let him out of his sight again anyway. Not after what’d happened.

What did it matter, really? What consequence did their actions have on that cold, unforgiving world? It didn’t care about what they did under the cover of night. It didn’t count their actions against a scoreboard, didn’t tally up the points. They were here, and they were warm, and Crowley-- Crowley was alive. Crowley was safe. 

“Aziraphale,” he breathed, the beginning of something - the start of some sentence. Some excuse. Some mindless babble about something he was most certainly making up in his anxiety-riddled brain.

Aziraphale didn’t want to hear it.

When he moved, it was easier than he had come to expect. There wasn’t a wall he was breaking through, not gravity pushing back against him. On the contrary, it was easy to fall towards Crowley, magnetic. It was like he was possessed (if only he had such a simple excuse). Aziraphale’s body already knew the destination. His fingers were already where he imagined them a thousand times before; one hand cupping Crowley’s jaw, one sliding to the back of his neck. In a single stretch he closed the distance between them in a way he had dreamed of, imagined, over and over and over again until it was as natural to him as breathing. 

Crowley made a noise - it was not one of surprise but instead a desperate thing, a whine of hope and need - and pitched forward into his path

Their mouths slid against each other, nervous and uncertain at first and then harder, faster, hungry. Their hands were unwrapping and grasping again, fumbling for contact, and then they were there. There, clutching - slowly coming together, and then quickly - lips on lips, hands on hands, chests flush, legs tangling. 

“Shit,” Crowley gasped, and that was all he was allowed before Aziraphale kissed him again, more soundly this time, swallowing the high-pitched moan. It would have perhaps been taken as a bad sign, this noise, if Crowley wasn’t writhing eagerly and swinging a leg over his hip with the determination of a man lost at sea who’d just discovered a boat in the middle of a storm. 

Aziraphale was responding in kind - his hand, the one that wasn’t busy tangling up into Crowley’s hair, was traveling downwards over the arch of his back, pushing up his sleeping shirt and sliding his fingers up the ribcage, getting at more skin. Crowley shoved himself against the other in kind, grabbing, gripping, as if he couldn’t quite find the proof he needed that Aziraphale was actually there. His hands landed on Aziraphale’s arse and he broke away from their kiss to let out an incoherent string of syllables that sounded like the distant cousin of ‘ _ oh, fuck, god, yes _ ’. 

It was only then that Aziraphale realized that the searing heat of want was not the only thing he was feeling in the pit of his stomach. No, lower, pressed up against the dip of his hip was something hard and just as warm. Something that had clearly been hard for a while, judging by the bit-off whine Crowley gave when Aziraphale sneaked a hand down between them and pressed his palm firmly against it.

_ Who is this for? _ Aziraphale thought to himself, fingers moving carefully up to the waistband of Crowley’s underpants _. Is it me you were thinking of? Or someone else? Were you merely having a good dream? _

He didn’t want to ask. Didn’t want to know the answer - didn’t want to risk knowing the truth. It was enough that the man was reacting positively, jerking his hips towards his touch, moaning open-mouthed against his neck when Aziraphale closed his fist around the base of the erection and rolled his thumb across the head that was already wet with precum.

Whatever it was Crowley had been imagining during his brief tossing and turning on his side of the bed, it had already taken its toll. With every drag of Aziraphale’ steady fingers up his cock, he keened obscenely and twisted his face into Aziraphale’s neck to mouth at his jaw, and Aziraphale responded in kind, biting his own lips until they bruised to contain the noises of delight that were bubbling out of him. In a burst of confidence he even pushed his own pajamas down his hips and then rolled them over until their erections slid against each other, hiking Crowley’s legs up over his hips and then looking, belatedly, to Crowley himself for a reaction. 

The reaction appeared to be overwhelmingly positive because Crowley, red faced and practically melted into the mattress, bit his bottom lip and stifled an obscene cry which may or may not have been the word ‘Please’.

As Aziraphale’s grip settled around his base again, they both let out a grateful pair of moans and Crowley shoved himself impossibly closer as if he couldn't get enough. He snaked an arm around his neck and sent another skidding down Aziraphale’s chest until he found the thick erection already waiting there for him, impatient and practically shaking with need. It didn’t take too long, not with his smart fingers on the job, and it helped that Aziraphale was already plenty hard and swelling more every second that Crowley worked on him. They rocked against one another, somehow in sync, and mouths slotting together for a brief, blissfully warm kiss before Aziraphale pressed him harder into the mattress and thrust against his erection again.

Crowley fisted his hair and his mouth parted seemingly on its own. “Angel...!” he rasped, low and needy and undone and familiar. Just like in every one of his fantasies, only better.

What little remained of Aziraphale’s precious self control was straining, threatening to rip. Crowley, as if an echo to his inner storm of need, to his quickening hand, arched up off the bed, the curve of his throat just under Aziraphale’s mouth. He pressed another soft kiss into it, soothing, and then gave another firm stroke, responding to the building cries Crowley was trying to stifle, rather unsuccessfully, into the back of his hand held over his mouth. 

With their bodies zipped close he felt, rather than saw, the orgasm pulse through the other. There was a lovely point of tension, when Crowley’s cries pitched into silent gasps, and then he shuddered and the threads holding him together came undone again as the wave of pleasure crested. 

“...’Ziraphale...!” he moaned, a barely-contained sob. 

It was too much and, overcome with the bright hot need, Aziraphale slid his hand to himself and finished in merely a few seconds, stifling a loud moan of his own into Crowley’s shoulder.

They pulled back just an inch, panting into each other, and Crowley’s eyes caught his for a moment. 

“Fuck,” Crowley whispered, and Aziraphale felt that he rather agreed. 

_ Not now _ , he told himself immediately before he could open his own stupid mouth and add to the already adequate observation.  _ Don’t ruin it. _

He tipped his forehead against Crowley’s, closed his eyes, and waited for the warm, rolling aftershocks to give him control of his brain back. His whole body was glowing and even with the desire abated, he couldn’t quite remember why they hadn’t done this much, much earlier. There must have been a reason, he knew, but with Crowley pressed up against him he couldn’t for the life of him recall what the hell it had been. 

Finally, the window shuddered under the weight of the gale again and the chill they had been impervious to a few moments prior made itself known. Aziraphale sighed and rolled over, reaching for the bedside table where a box of tissues was waiting.

“Here,” he said quietly, handing Crowley some and wiping away the evidence from his own stomach. As soon as he was done and had tossed it in the direction of the rubbish bin he was rolling over and feeling as if a heavy, warm weight had settled over him - because in fact it had. Crowley snaked an arm around his chest and he found himself pinned rather comfortably in the middle of the blankets. 

There was probably a reason to care, there was probably something to be said about this but Aziraphale felt, for once in his life, utterly incapable of recalling all the facts. His brain was blissfully empty, and the only thing he thought as he turned his head and pressed his nose against Crowley’s hair was how they would have to wash the bedsheets in the morning.

Outside, the wind kept howling and the frost scaled the cottage, conquering, bending the trees to its will, but neither of them heard it at all, because they were already fast asleep. 

* * *


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "And besides, they had a mean streak of communication issues going. Who was he to break it?"

* * *

_Oh no._

It was the third thing Aziraphale thought upon his waking sometime in the early hours of the morning. 

The first was - _Finally, an uninterrupted, decent night’s sleep!_

The second was - _Wait a minute._

The fourth and fifth thoughts were devoted to a panicked rummaging through his memory and a clumsy check and double-check of ‘did that really happen?’

Then he devoted a few minutes to looking around for Crowley - who had once again rolled away from him sometime during the night and was now sprawled across the other side of the bed in a tornado of limbs with no respect for standard human anatomy. Still, he seemed, for the moment, completely out of it, which was a relief for Aziraphale’s potential window of compartmentalization. 

The rest of it was a bit of a blur. He moved on autopilot, stumbling to the bathroom and grappling with the water controls without even seeing them. While in the shower he alternated between trying desperately to avoid thinking of what had occurred and thinking about it with a sort of ravaged devotion he would normally attribute to a starving man. 

And maybe that was the issue - he had been starving. That sort of fantasy had been locked away in his wet dreams, his backroom desires, his most unallowed thoughts, for six years. Something about the catharsis of having Crowley nearly disappear and then be abruptly returned, safe and sound to his arms, had evidently hit a nerve. Had paralyzed whatever common sense and logic he usually had. The sleep deprivation no doubt had something to do with it. 

It had been so easy, he thought with a dawning horror. Six years, and it hadn’t faded at all. It had been like they’d never spent a night apart. It had been exactly the same - the same urgent yearning, the same driving need to pull Crowley to him, to feel him, to hear him.

He was damned. 

“Fuck,” he whispered into his fist, closing his eyes and leaning against the wall. If he focused, the water cascading down his back could be the gentle caress of a hand. The warmth of it on his skin might be mistaken for the heat of another body pressing up against his.

This, of course, did not actively help matters. After counting down from ten, he turned off the spray and reached for the towel, only to immediately press his face into it and ignore the rest of his body. It was still responding to the ideas his brain was feeding it, energized by the midnight snack it had rolling around with Crowley in the sheets.

 _Not much in the snack department_ , he thought numbly. _I should have at least sucked his cock while I had the chance._

As soon as the idea flashed through his head he had to hurriedly remind himself to be appalled. Then he wondered why he had to be. He knew it wasn’t wrong - well, it was, in a way, because he was certainly not devoting nearly enough time thinking about how Crowley felt about all this. Instead, his mind seemed determined to selfishly recycle the memory of how Crowley... felt. In the tactile sense. How he might feel, in his mouth, fully erect and sliding against his tongue and towards the back of his throat and--

 _This is torture_ , he thought with dawning realization, pushing aside the dirty thoughts - again - and examining his own back and forth from a third-person perspective. _Mental self-flagellation._

The gorging, the binge, came now. He was getting his fill while he could. But the starvation that would most certainly follow this brief respite in an oasis of skin to skin contact would be that much harsher for it. Once the holiday was over they would return to London. Return to not being ‘married’. Not sleeping in the same bed. And what would happen then?

And what would happen _now_? What had happened, for that matter? What had that been? Had Crowley been having a... sexual dream? Had Aziraphale just helped out in a mutual case of sleep-deprived nightly groping? Crowley had certainly been agreeable, and he’d certainly... he’d certainly not pulled away or hesitated. He’d certainly gasped Aziraphale’s name while coming, which had been enough to bring Aziraphale’s own orgasm to completion, but then again... They’d not uttered ten words to each other during the whole thing and had been evidently too exhausted with their respective efforts to discuss it afterwards. 

Not that it had been a problem - it had been rather nice, actually... which of course, _was_ the problem in and of itself. 

He breathed out, pulled the towel tighter around himself and, stepping up to the bathroom counter, opened his eyes and gazed back at the mirror. 

_No, Aziraphale, keep it together_ , he thought at his own reflection. _You must keep it together. You’re the one who asked him to come-- TO ACCOMPANY! you on this trip. This was your idea. And he agreed. It’s-- you’re pretending to be married, for god’s sake!_

He swallowed down a dry laugh, shuddered at its taste on his tongue. The lie was melting like butter. 

The true method acting experience. Maybe they should have gone into theatre. Or at least he should have - it was still unclear what, precisely, Crowley’s stance on all this was.

He peeked out of the bathroom and found the source of his troubles unmoved, snoring endearingly into the mattress. He seemed utterly relaxed, in a way no other human in the possession of a whole skeleton would ever be in his current twisted position. 

The problem was, one could not ask a sleeping man questions. The other problem was - Aziraphale had a bad track record with the non-sleeping variety of questions as well, at least where Crowley was concerned. 

And besides, they had a mean streak of communication issues going. Who was he to break it? 

After a bit of deliberation he decided to do what he did best; procrastinate on confrontation and go downstairs. Once there, his putzing around the various familiar spaces - the drawing room with the heavy oak table, the lobby with its cluster of leather chairs, the kitchen with its gleaming, futuristic stainless steel appliances - brought him to the main hall, where he was approached by one of the staff and handed a stock-paper note. 

“From Missus Dowling,” the woman informed him before walking away.

_Aziraphale_ , 

_Thaddeus and I will be gone for most of the day. There’s been a storm-in at a nearby town, so we’re heading over there to meet with the city counsel. Help yourselves to anything you’d like, and don’t let Ashtoreth outside. ;)_

_~ Harriet_

He read it a few times, grateful for the distraction, and sat down in one of the leather chairs to think it over. Now that the events of the previous night were slowly fading into the distance, padded as they were by other details, they seemed less real somehow, safer. 

It wasn’t denial - it was simply organization. After all, nothing good had ever come from over-emotional decisions, especially if the majority of the emotions one was experiencing was a monsterous sexual desire towards one’s own literary partner. Instead, he had to think pragmatically. Prioritize. Solve one problem at a time.

There were factors to consider besides his own lack of restraint, and it would be prudent to put others before himself. Starting, of course, with his hosts, which had been greatly inconvenienced by the rash decisions of one specific A. J. Crowley, who was currently his responsibility. 

Satisfied with this conclusion, he made his way back over to his own quarters. The new development of the Dowlings’ departure was an oddly welcome one, and he almost forgot to be nervous when he pushed the bedroom door open again and headed in with a new goal in mind. 

The bed creaked when he sat down, but Crowley didn’t wake up immediately - instead he groaned and made a whole show of yanking the covers up, squinting against the light. Despite Aziraphale’s best efforts, he found it utterly charming.

“What time izzit,” Crowley muttered, and then peeled open his eyes and focused, with some difficulty, on Aziraphale. 

“Nearly nine,” replied Aziraphale very calmly, much to his own surprise. “Time to start the day, I think.”

“We’re on holiday, Angel, the day starts when we want,” croaked Crowley. He smushed his face back into the sheets and smacked his lips. “‘Sides I barely feel like I slept at all, I think I woke up in the middle of the night and--”

Here, Crowley’s brain seemed to decide to explore its long-term memory function and he aborted his steam-engine train of thought in favor of a high-speed shinkansen. Aziraphale watched the velocity of his mental dialogue increase visibly as his expression underwent a transformation of rapidfire realizations and recollections. Aziraphale, having undergone the same process himself an hour earlier, was more than equipped to sympathize. 

It was most certainly not his intention to revel in the discomfort of the other, so the author cleared his throat and glanced at the window (a rather admirable feat, because light didn’t usually bend around objects as massive as the elephant in the room). “The Dowlings are away, and will be gone until evening,” he said. “Something about an emergency in the next town over. So the American film viewing day we had planned is canceled.”

“Oh, that’s too bad,” Crowley choked out in the worst imitation of regret ever. He paused, gathering his thoughts, and then glanced at Aziraphale with barely concealed befuddlement, visibly struggling to understand what was going on in this metaphorical hall of mirrors. “I’ve always wanted to die of boredom watching Hollywood flicks.”

Aziraphale glanced back at him, and a tiny smile slipped through the cracks of his best imitation of a disapproving expression. “Very funny, but you’re not allowed to complain about boredom after idiotic stunt you pulled last night.”

On the bed, Crowley tensed visibly. Aziraphale tensed with him, wondering what was the matter, and then immediately realized the implication of his words. Crowley was not looking at him, but his face had already gone a shade paler and he looked primed to start apologizing - presumably for the _other_ thing that had happened last night.

“The-- The snowboarding,” Aziraphale blurted out. “I’m talking about the... your mountain hike. Your near death experience?”

There was a freeze-frame, a tense pause while Crowley’s brain puzzled itself back into something resembling less of a cornered wild animal, and then a slow, relieved hiss of an exhale. 

“Right,” Crowley said slowly. “That. Yes. That thing. Last night. The snowboard thing.”

They were both silent for a moment, pretending very politely that nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Aziraphale also pulled in a tight breath and then let it out unevenly, deflating. “Even if you weren’t hurt, it was very stupid,” he said, fidgeting with his hands on his lap. “I’m afraid we’ve inconvenienced our hosts. Harriet was quite worried about you. They had to call and cancel the search party. And she offered to cover the cost of the snowboard you lost on the mountain.” 

Crowley sighed and flopped his arms out. If nothing else, Aziraphle’s impressive thematic shift had given him something to focus on. “Fair enough. That’s on me. I’ll grovel for her forgiveness when she returns.”

“No, save the groveling. You’ll do something more productive,” Aziraphale informed him. All at once, he was back to business. “We have the whole day, and the kitchen is empty. You’re going to bake them something as an apology.”

“Bake something?” This seemed to - finally - get a genuinely Crowley-like reaction, complete with cartoon physics flickering him through a series of scowls. The man turned his head and squinted against the brightness of the light haloing Aziraphale from the window. “ _Really?_ ”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. “What was that thing you mentioned,” he said, glancing skyward. “About how arguing with me was like arguing with a wall? And what is it you usually say instead of engaging in such a fruitless pursuit?”

The sleep-tousled head of hair, which had previously been lifted to give more power to his look of disbelief, thumped back down into the mattress in defeat. “Yes angel,” he sighed.

“Excellent,” Aziraphale said. He was unable to help a smile from peeking through. “It’s so nice to see you being agreeable for once, rare an occasion as it is. Now, we can’t expect everything to go well, and I’m sure the kitchenware will take some figuring out, so I suggest you get dressed and join me downstairs. I’ll make you a coffee, if you need the extra incentive.”

“I do.”

“In that case, I will expect you in fifteen minutes.”

“Twenty,” grunted Crowley. 

“Ten, then,” Aziraphale replied, and bustled past him to the door. “Or your coffee will get cold. Wouldn’t want that.”

He heard Crowley grumbling something under his breath that resembled mocking, but no further negotiations followed. Smiling triumphantly, Aziraphale shut the door with a soft click behind him. 

That hadn’t been so bad. Now he just had to survive the next eight hours... and the next five days.

* * *

He felt lighter. Happier somehow. It was probably the proper night’s sleep he had gotten - and the other thing that had been sandwiched between it - but he didn’t want to jump the gun between causation and correlation just yet. Besides, if Aziraphale really needed a way to explain the warm glow deep in his chest, he could say that winning an argument always put him in a good mood, and today this particular mental breakfast was served with a side of successfully avoiding the awkward conversation neither of them were (presumably) ready to have, so he was more than sated. He hummed tunelessly to himself while preparing his own tea, only managed to get tetchy at the coffee maker for 30 seconds before realizing it was an ice cream machine, and then very easily transitioned into shuffling around the cabinets looking for available ingredients. 

Crowley arrived within the promised ten minutes. He had not donned his sunglasses this morning, but he _was_ wearing soft, loose black trousers and a very fetching quarter-sleeve shirt with a wide collar, which was presumably on purpose because it immediately distracted Aziraphale into forgetting that he was supposed to be mad and pulled the temperature of the miniature sun inside of him a few degrees higher.

“Coffee’s on the counter, in that red mug,” he said, turning back to the pantry hurriedly to avoid staring. “I already put in the sugars.”

“Thanks,” Crowley said and perched on one of the tall bar stools while Aziraphale bustled around, opening up cabinets. As he turned, once again, to grab his tea and finish it off, their eyes met. Taking cue in impeccable tandem, their eyebrows jumped up simultaneously, mirroring one another.

From Crowley’s side, this expression radiated a slightly confused _“Are we going to talk about it?”_

From Aziraphale’s side, it was an instantaneous and painfully forced _“Talk about what?”_

Crowley lowered his eyebrows. Aziraphale lowered his eyes. Both of them took another well-timed sip without saying a word out loud.

“So which episode of the Great British Bake-Off are we parodying?” Crowley asked, evidently deciding to leave it for the time being.

Feeling a flare of gratitude, Aziraphale sprung into action and grabbed a rack of powdered spices to his left, shuffling through them to take stock. “I was thinking maybe something seasonal,” he said. “But seeing as we can’t just whip up a Christmas pudding on a whim, we’ll have to improvise.”

“It’ll have to be something I can actually make,” Crowley reminded him needlessly. “Don’t just expect me to reenact your cooking channels. You know that stuff is staged, right?”

“I’m fully aware of your cooking abilities, my dear, I do see those posts you’re always sending me from that... what is it called... Instant Gram something or other,” Aziraphale called over his shoulder, and then crouched down to peek into the lower cabinets. 

Crowley made no reply. At least not an on-topic one. “I don't think I’ve seen you wear trackies before,” he said instead. 

Aziraphale straightened up and glanced down over his shoulder. He was suddenly aware that his softer choice of wear this morning - something Harriet had called ‘sweat-pants’ - hugged his thighs much more tightly than his typical variety of trousers. He was also suddenly aware that Crowley was, evidently, coming to the same conclusion over the rim of his cup of coffee. 

“My eyes are up here,” Aziraphale said.

“Mine aren’t,” Crowley replied, and although his voice was quiet, his smile tilted in that teasing way it hadn’t for a long time. Feeling his face ignite faster than a paten full of brandy-soaked communion wafers (it had been a particularly memorable day at the altar, even after ten years), Aziraphale turned, hiding his bottom from Crowley’s direct line of sight.

 _Are you flirting?_ he wanted to ask. _With me? Right here? In this kitchen? After we brought each other off in the middle of the night like a pair of hormonal twenty-somethings?_

He didn’t ask. Instead he tugged on the bottom of his shirt self-consciously and tried to make sure his voice didn’t come out squeaky. “If you think you can sweet-talk your way out of this--” 

“Just making an observation,” Crowley said, and looked away, seeming to finally feel some semblance of common sense return to him. The moment passed as if it had merely been a glitch in the matrix, and he took another sip of coffee and slipped off of the barstool, going to the refrigerator to peek inside it. “Fine, what do you want me to make? A pie? I’m terrible at pies.” 

“It doesn't have to be a pie,” Aziraphale assured, finally relaxing a fraction. Maybe he was just imagining things. Overreacting. Crowley liked to tease. He wasn’t being serious. 

He certainly seemed serious now, dark eyebrows together, mouth zipped to the side, lost in thought. Muttering something under his breath, he uncoiled a bit and reached in and extracted several colorful containers of jam from the top shelves, reading the labels at an arm’s length. “Maybe something with filling. What would Harriet like?” 

“I’m not entirely sure,” Aziraphale admitted, struggling and failing not to glance at Crowley’s back muscles as he poised himself, stretching across the open fridge door languidly as a snake sunning itself on some branches. “It’s the thought that counts, I think. And they don't have any allergies. You can make something vegan if you’d like.”

“S’not for me though, is it?” Crowley sighed and straightened up again. His arms were already full of several containers of some sort of jam. “Fine, then what do _you_ feel like eating?”

“Oh don’t worry, I’m never going to be picky about what I’m putting in my mouth if it’s coming from you,” Aziraphale replied, and immediately regretted it when Crowley fumbled with the jars and swerved his head back to him. 

Almost too late, the ancient cogs in his brain turned, caught up with what he’d just said, and a blaring fire alarm deafened the rest of his senses. 

“I mean-- I just... That’s...” He grabbed the kitchen counter behind him, closing his eyes as if not seeing Crowley blush would somehow convince himself that it wasn’t happening. Perhaps not too bad of an idea - as evidenced by their conversation so far, he was lacking higher brain function, including Object Permanence. “Any... Any kind of jam!”

Crowley disguised his own startled squeaking as a polite cough. “Jam,” he said. “Of course. Yep. Jam. That’s what I thought you meant.” 

For a moment it almost seemed like he was going to drop it, spare Aziraphale the mortification of his second slip up that morning. They’d had more than enough, hadn’t they? They both deserved rest. But then, instead, some sort of bastardly instinct took hold and Crowley, unable to resist, looked up again. “Any preference on size?”

Aziraphale’s heart stuttered and his cheeks flared into what was most certainly a shade of red lipstick companies would kill for. “Crowley,” he began, a tremolo warning tone in his note.

“Well, I’m just saying,” Crowley continued hurriedly, and began to set down the jars onto the counter. “If you want, I can make something smaller. Maybe something ah... bite-sized?”

The tension eased back again like the tide. Aziraphale exhaled.

 _Why now?_ he thought, fighting against the urge to sag against the wall. Lord knows he was never good at resisting the other’s charming wit, but especially so soon after they’d gotten to touch again, when the feeling of Crowley bucking into his hand was still fresh in his mind?! There was no way to evade the improper turn of thought. He was only human.

“Right,” he agreed. “Bite-sized. Biscuits, perhaps.”

“Biscuits,” Crowley soothed, and then smiled all too innocently, aiming it right at Aziraphale. “Hard or soft?”

“Really now!” Aziraphale snapped, feeling himself heat up. This was definitely on purpose - it _had_ to be! “Can you please be serious for _one minute_?”

“Okay, okay,” Crowley murmured, both hands up as if he was facing down a bull. The delighted trickster grin on his face took on a slightly guilty tinge. “One minute. I promise.” But, seeing Aziraphale’s shoulders still tense, he seemed to relent entirely. His eyes searched the fridge once more and then he shut it, seemed to have come to some sort of decision. “Look, you’ve been poking around more than I have. Have they got yeast?”

Aziraphale blinked himself back into half-functioning consciousness. Tried to forcibly shut the lid on the filth bubbling up from the sewers of his mind, mop it back up, pretend it wasn’t there. “Yeast? Yes, I-- I believe so. Dry yeast, if that’s good enough; I don’t know the difference but...”

“That’ll do,” Crowley assured and whirled around, heading to the rack that seemed to house the rest of the powder ingredients. He pulled each can off of the shelf, popping off the lids and checking inside. “We’re in the Land of Opportunity, they should have the rest of the basics. Who knows, maybe they’ll even have a deep fryer... Not that it’s necessary, but it would make things easier.”

“What are you planning on making?” asked Aziraphale, forgetting himself and edging closer as Crowley began to yank out the bowls and measuring cups.

“Sufganiyot,” replied Crowley, and slammed down a rolling pit he had procured out of seemingly nowhere. “Hanukkah’s over, but I highly doubt they’ll know that.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Aziraphale, and clapped his hands together in excitement. At last, the remainder of his suspicions melted away under the promise of something delicious. “That’s an excellent idea. I’ll help!”

“Sure you will,” answered Crowley and maybe it was just his imagination, but he thought he saw the man wink. “With the filling.”

Aziraphale glanced up and narrowed his eyes accusingly.

In reply, he received only a sly grin. “Minute’s up, angel,” said Crowley. “My kitchen now.”

* * *

Something had happened. Something had, imperceptibly, shifted. 

He was - he loathed to admit it - having fun. 

To be clear - he was still wrecked with nerves and guilt, and was very much trying his best to resist being pulled into Crowley’s shenanigans, but his will was wearing thin, and it was extremely difficult, especially when he was being so ridiculously charming.

“You’re doing this on purpose,” Aziraphale groaned into his hands.

“No idea what you’re talking about,” Crowley replied. “You’re the one that suggested it in the first place. Can’t cook on an empty stomach - that’s what you said. And I made you your omelette--”

“And it was very good, and I already said thank you,” Aziraphale cut in. “But you know that’s not what I mean.”

“S’breakfast,” Crowley said, not making eye contact. His fingers continued to peel the fruit in front of him. “It’s probably the only truly vegan food we’re going to find in this house.”

“That’s absolutely not true,” Aziraphale grumbled, but he pulled his fingers apart just a bit to watch. “I’m not-- oh good lord,” he gasped immediately as Crowley, maintaining eye contact, brought the banana up to his mouth and grazed his teeth lightly against the tip. “ _Anthony!_ ”

“What?” Crowley demanded, though by now he was almost as flushed as Aziraphale, and clearly holding back laughter. “I’m trying not to use my lips! Trying to be appropriate--”

“Still quite lewd,” Aziraphale protested. 

“Oh yeah? What are you, some sort of banana eating expert now? Was that your focus in seminary? ‘How to Not Sexualize Food’? Because let me tell you, you would fail that class.” Crowley pointed with the banana accusingly. “The pot calling the kettle black if you ask me!”

Aziraphale lowered his hands and gasped, affronted. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Oh don’t you start! Have you ever seen yourself eat?”

“That’s a ludicrous question - no one has seen themselves eat, because most people don’t eat in front of a mirror! Explain to me what in the world you’re talking about--”

“Explain? You expect me to explain it to you?” Crowley leaned across the island counter toward him, his eyes glinting with a long-suppressed rant finally being released into the wild. “For six years I’ve watched you go into every restaurant and have an affair with a dessert, making faces that would make most porn-movie stars blush and you think you can lecture me about eating phallic fruit?!”

Aziraphale’s lips parted into a neat ‘o’ in startled offense. “I do _not_ make faces--”

Crowley didn’t let him finish. “Every bite you take ends on a moan! The way you tongue cream off of a cake would give most of your readers a heart attack - and some of mine as well, if I were being honest! And the way you lick your spoon like it’s fucking... fucking...Ngk!”

Aziraphale folded his arms in front of him primly. “Are you quite done?” he asked, feeling yet another blush dust his cheeks.

“With you? No, never,” Crowley sneered, and, before Aziraphale could make any more comments on that front, returned his banana to his mouth and bit off the top in a particularly violent fashion.

With some effort, Aziraphale suppressed a wince. “I don’t do it on purpose,” he said defensively. It wasn’t as if he was completely unaware of his own habits, but he’d never thought that, behind his casual tilt of the head and the glint of the dark lenses hiding the vector of his gaze, Crowley might be watching him that closely. “I just get a bit carried away, and... well... If I knew it bothered you so much, I would have toned it down a long time ago.”

“Don’t you dare,” Crowley said around the victimized fruit in his mouth. He chewed and then shoved more of the banana in, perhaps hoping to shut himself up, or perhaps hoping to sufficiently distract Aziraphale from their argument. It was successful on both counts, and before they could pick it back up the timer on the fridge went off, dragging Crowley off of his chair and back to the expensive oven to check on their rising dough. 

Flustered and quite at a loss for words, Aziraphale stared at the counter, fighting and losing the urge to smile quietly to himself behind the hand propping his chin up. It wasn’t supposed to be funny, he wasn’t supposed to find this endearing. They were treading on thin ice, they were... approaching the event horizon, if he was being honest with himself. Sure, dirty jokes were always a part of their routine, but none had ever been so explicitly aimed at one another as they were now. 

Was it the fault of the daylight? Was it all this extended proximity? Was being next to Crowley - sleeping next to Crowley, sleeping _with_ Crowley - making him let down his guard? He felt like they were in a downhill race guided only by gravity, and he had no idea how to slam the breaks - or really, if he even wanted to. Everything felt too good. He was having trouble remembering why he’d been avoiding this for so long.

He lifted his eyes, and locked their squarely on the man’s backside. It was moving in a way that was most tantalizing as he spilled the dough out onto the counter and began to knead, rolling his hips as if his upper body couldn’t quite convince his lower body to balance through the extra exertion. Last night he’d had an entire handful of that arse, had cupped it and dragged Crowley closer, up his own thigh, had revelled in the breathless moan he’d ground out as a result.

A particularly loud huff of air distracted him from his reverie. “Should have gone to get a bloody haircut before we left...” Crowley was muttering. He tossed his head, and his hair went with it, flying in an elegant arc over his shoulder right before slipping right back to where it had been a few moments prior. 

“You should tie it back,” Aziraphale said, and, forgoing his own advice, stood up and stepped over to the counter. Closer. Almost close enough to touch. Again.

“Hands are dirty,” Crowley muttered, staring down at the dough, pressing his heels into the rolls, stretching it out. 

Aziraphale side-eyed the sink, merely a few feet away. Then he blinked back to the copper curls flopping across the sharp profile. “Where’s your hair tie?” 

Almost at once, Crowley’s hands slowed their movements and then came to a complete stop, digging his fingers inward. “Back pocket,” he replied quietly. 

Quietly - because Aziraphale was there, right next to him. They didn’t need to speak up to hear one another. They could do with the soft, secret murmurs that had sustained them last night.

Swallowing the sudden heat, the dryness in his mouth, Aziraphale licked his lips and glanced down. “You don’t say.” His hand twitched. Moved. Hovered over the shape he already knew by heart. 

Slowly, as if not to startle either of them, he traced the edge of the folded fabric, middle finger skidding along the line until he made it to the center and sank it in. His other fingers joined in, palm dipping, seeking, until he found what he was looking for.

“What a coincidence,” he said. 

Crowley’s eyes were closed, and his breathing shallow. Still, against all odds, he found it in himself to speak rather frankly - if one were to ignore the crack in his voice. “S’not on purpose.”

“I know,” Aziraphale replied, fishing out the tie. For a brief second, both of them let out the breath they’d been holding. Aziraphale fiddled with the elastic band, stretching it onto his thumb and middle finger. “I recognize your schemes well enough by now to know this isn’t one of them. Tilt your head back.”

Crowley did as told, his throat jumping visibly. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked. 

Holding on to his reply, Aziraphale stepped behind him and threaded his fingers into the soft red hair. It was a blessing, an absolute saving grace, that he had gotten to touch this hair so often during their stay here. It made it so much more bearable now to find purchase in it again without losing himself completely in the sensation. He was acclimatized. He could control his urges. 

He pulled the hair through one loop, tugging just a bit harder to neatly secure the band, and Crowley made a voiceless noise like a whine had been punched out of him. Ignoring the hungry coil of his stomach, Aziraphale paused, gave him respite, and then kept going until he had made a neat loop, stopping halfway without completing the ponytail. 

“It means,” he said, hand slipping for just a moment down to the back of Crowley’s neck. “That, when it comes to mischief, your signature schemes often lack foresight.”

Crowley swallowed again, much more audibly now. His voice, when he opened his mouth, was not even bothering to hide the nervous, wrecked rattle. “Foresight?”

“Such as going out into the mountains alone without a backup plan,” said Aziraphale primly. He smiled when Crowley’s shoulders jumped under his hand and pulled it away as the other turned his head to attempt a scowl through a haze of what was clearly a compromised, flushed expression. 

“I’m never gonna hear the end of this, am I?”

“You will,” Aziraphale replied simply, unable to deny himself a bit of gloating. “When the Sufganiyot are done. And when Harriet hears you apologize.”

Crowley groaned, and turned back to the dough, and for once, Aziraphale felt quite content with the result of their bickering. 

It was good to have the upper hand again.

* * *

There were a lot of things that probably needed to happen, but it was as if the world was on hold. 

There were no consequences for their actions. There was no fallout. There was simply the gently tickling sensation of warm, mutual fondness and a kitchen drenched in golden mid-morning light that smelled pleasantly of rising dough. There was laughter as they both began to bicker again and powdered sugar may or may not have been tossed. There was Crowley, ushering him out with a series of noises that resembled a clucking hen, and there was a brief moment where Aziraphale finally relented and turned around and said, very unconvincingly ‘I’m still mad at you you know’ and Crowley said, equally unconvincingly, ‘Yes, yes, I get it Angel, you’re very stern, I’m sorry, now just go sit down and bury your nose in a book and stop stealing my ingredients’. There was also the briefest moment when they both simultaneously leaned forward as if to kiss, only to catch themselves at the last moment and fumble to turn the motion into something else, looking simultaneously startled at themselves and each other, unsure what to make of it.

If you were to ask Aziraphale what, precisely, he was doing, he would not be able to tell you anything besides a surface level lie of ‘Making sure the Dowlings did not resent Crowley for making them extra busy on holiday’. He would construct an intricate jenga tower of excuses that began and ended with ‘Crowley is very stubborn and he needs all the incentive I can give him, and I’m simply making sure this trip goes smoothly’. He would disguise his heart fluttering as a symptom of the anxiety that had seized him when he thought Crowley was out on the mountain, alone and in grave danger, and he would convince anyone who cared to listen that all that this was, was a very careful and logical plan to not let Crowley off easily, and each of his actions was most definitely serving a greater purpose, and he was not just procrastinating on his own feelings as long as possible.

It had nothing at all to do with how light he felt on his feet as he walked back to their section of the cottage. It was completely unrelated to the feeling of fullness, of peace, as he curled in the corner of the sofa. And it definitely had no connection to the fact that merely fifteen minutes later, the footsteps he’d already begun to miss returned along with Crowley himself rounding the corner, now free of his borrowed apron. 

Although Aziraphale refused to glance up to avoid looking desperate, he had to at least acknowledge the presence when Crowley thrust a steaming cup at his face. A familiar aroma wafted from it. Chamomile. His favorite. Someone was clearly trying to win back favor.

“Thank you,” he said. It was strictly out of habit. It wasn’t because he was already planning to forgive the other, he stubbornly thought to himself as he accepted the offering and took a sip. “Are they finished?”

“Yes, and before you ask - I did clean up.” The opposite end of the couch dipped with weight as something sank into its cushions - though it was most definitely not a bottom if Crowley’s typical way of sitting was presumed. Sure enough, several seconds later there was more moving around - a few cushions were displaced, and some wiggling ensued. Aziraphale pressed his thumb into the page to keep his spot and finally glanced sideways at the long, writhing mess of black limbs beside him and tutting. 

“How difficult can using a couch possibly be?” he asked.

“It’s not exactly large enough to be comfortable,” Crowley grumbled in reply, folding himself into a pretzel. 

“It’s a normal size,” replied Aziraphale, tipping his free hand against his reading glasses to push them down a bit on his nose so he could more properly complete the Disapproving Librarian look. “You just have too much leg.”

“Would you prefer I get rid of them altogether?” replied the man. “Become a snake instead?”

With a weary sigh, Aziraphale leaned back and lifted up the book he was holding in his lap, leaving open a space. “Give them here, then.”

After a brief pause (as if he suspected treachery) Crowley unfolded himself and stretched out his ankles, planting them on the other’s thighs. They both tensed but nothing happened. Feeling slightly silly for worrying, Aziraphale lowered his arms again and, ignoring Crowley’s socked toes under his wrists, returned to his book.

It did not take long for another interruption to come along. He was near halfway down the page when the toes under him wiggled in warning.

“What are you reading?”

Aziraphale did not deign to look up. He might have given the impossibly long legs across his lap shelter from the tiny couch, but that was still a far cry from making smalltalk. 

“It’s a bible,” he replied. 

As expected, the Crowley in his peripheral vision made a face. “What for? Your self-hatred levels getting low? Feel the need to replenish them? There are better ways to go about it.” He huffed and crossed his arms over his chest. “Watching the telly or reading a magazine, for example.”

“What can I say, I’m old fashioned.” Aziraphale continued to stare stubbornly downwards. “This is technically a more... modern take on it,” he added in spite of himself. He had to entertain himself somehow, and this had potential. 

Crowley shifted slightly against the cushions and then tipped his head back, letting out a frustrated groan. “New version, same old shit.”

Aziraphale turned the page idly, skimming the lines. He could have counted down in his head, but that would have given him away as waiting for the next interjection. Still, he couldn’t feign surprise when Crowley spoke up again. 

“Which book.”

Another page turn. Silence. Then, failing to hold off any longer, Aziraphale answered: “Song of Solomon.”

Crowley was quiet. Aziraphale was equally quiet, and although his eyes were directed downwards, he was no longer pretending to be reading it. He had already cast his line. He could see Crowley circling the hook. 

“That one’s not so bad.” Bait taken. “Read me some?”

Aziraphale sighed in fake exasperation and wiggled his way deeper into the couch and fussed with his reading glasses, trying to cover up the fact that he was shifting his spot in the book. He had not, in fact, been on Song of Solomon, but he knew it would be the one most likely to get Crowley to cave. And it had been. He felt awfully smug about it - and ignored the fact that there was an underlying irony to his own scheming.

Finally, the correct passage was opened and he cleared his throat for dramatic effect.

“ _The chant of chants, which is Solomon's,_ ” he recited quietly from the top, trying very hard to ignore the urge to turn his head just a bit to spy for Crowley’s reaction. “ _Let her kiss me with the kisses of her screech: for thy love is benar than sherry_ .” He could feel the other’s gaze on him, but he couldn’t risk slipping up now. “ _Because of the savour of thy bona ointments thy name is as ointment poured forth, therefore do the nanti charvers love thee._ ”

Crowley pitched forward, grabbing the back of the couch for leverage. “Wait a second,” he said. 

Feeling a warm flame of triumph in the pit of his stomach, Aziraphale glanced over at him and threw up his eyebrows, making his eyes as wide as innocent as humanly possible. “Hm?”

“That’s not the Song of Solomon.”

“It most certainly is.”

“Let me see that!” Crowley demanded, reaching forward - just as Aziraphale snapped the bible shut and lifted it above his head, out of reach. His other hand clamped down on Crowley’s ankles, hoping to keep him trapped, but it didn’t quite work. Crowley was more flexible than any human had any reasonable excuse being, and very quickly overcame this obstacle by scooching himself forward, nearly clambering onto Aziraphale’s lap in order to grab for the prized possession. 

“Why, I had no idea you were so devoted to the word of the Almighty!” the man exclaimed in a single, desperate pitch of playing dirty.

It didn’t work. Crowley merely said ‘shut up!’ somewhere in the vicinity of his ear and finally grabbed the leather-bound copy of the book in his own hands, yanking it quickly and squinting at the front cover. 

“The _Polari Bible_?” he demanded a second later, and whipped his head around to look at Aziraphale, who was nearly coming apart in stitches. “You bloody heathen, you had me going for a second there!”

“Oh hush,” gasped Aziraphale around his peals of laughter, which he was no longer bothering to contain. “It _is_ a bible, regardless of what dialect it’s written in.”

“Where did you even get this?”

“Well I’d got my hands on a copy from the Buxton Festival back in ‘04, I think it was, but then I sold it.” Aziraphale observed as the man flipped to the first few pages of Genesis and skimmed the lines. “And anyway, there’s been recent updates. So I went and had it custom printed and bound.”

“You would,” muttered Crowley, but he was smiling to himself. Leaning back against the sofa again he continued to read, and as he did so Aziraphale’s hands - now empty - fell naturally back to his ankles. He could demand the book back, but something told him that any amount of time he could get Crowley reading a bible could be used as blackmail later, so interrupting was not an option. Instead, he began to rub his thumb in lazy circles across the top of one socked foot. The thick, knitted threads of the fabric provided textual stimuli, and he allowed his mind to wander elsewhere as he stared off into the distance. 

That is, until Crowley moaned softly.

Aziraphale froze, for a moment wondering if his imagination (which had been steering solidly in that exact direction anyway) had abruptly gotten an audio-track upgrade, only to be assaulted with an almost indecent (and very real), pleading sort of voice: “Don’t stop, that feels good.”

He looked down at his hands which had moved (on their own!) to the arch of Crowley’s foot, pressing knuckles into the stretch of skin there. “Oh,” he said.

Crowley, despite having been the one to protest the pause to the massage, now took his turn to blush and act offended. “What is this, positive reinforcement?”

Aziraphale looked at him, looked at the still-opened bible in his hands, and drew in a slow, steadying breath. “It might be,” he said, his face a masquerade of expressions, each carefully hidden. “You can keep reading.” He restarted the kneading of his hands again and did his best to ignore the echoing, sharp intake of breath from his couch-partner. Regardless of how ridiculous it was, Crowley did turn his eyes downwards again and at least pretended to pay attention to whatever was written. It was clear the effort put forth was not foolproof - when Aziraphale’s palm rolled in lazy circles against the hard bones in the ball of his foot, he let out another incoherent string of noises and let his eyes slip shut. 

“Fuck,” he muttered. “Yeah, right there...”

Aziraphale felt something in his stomach flip over. Without meaning to, he pressed his thumb into the softer part of the foot again, rolling a spiral around. It had an immediate effect - Crowley moaned into the back of his hand, which had come up to cover his mouth.

“You’re doing that on purpose,” he hissed into his knuckles. 

Aziraphale hummed quietly. He could deny nothing. “Positive reinforcement,” he murmured, and then, without thinking, slid his palm aside, dipping his fingers under the soft fabric of the trousers and rolling it up to expose the pale calf hidden there. 

“Angel,” Crowley rumbled, and his leg muscle tightened under Aziraphale’s palm. 

Aziraphale’s hand stilled, and for a brief second of clarity he realized that this was quickly evolving into something that wasn’t just a platonic foot massage. If his hand traveled any higher up - and it was angling to do so already - he’d be... They would be... _Oh dear._

With a start, he began to pull his hand away, only to find it covered abruptly with Crowley’s own. Strong fingers wrapped around his palm, holding it there - just like last night. Crowley was sitting up, scooting closer. His expression was a mystery, but this time through no fault of the sunglasses - Aziraphale had simply not attempted to look up, choosing instead to hyperfocus on the way their fingers had tangled up on Crowley’s knee. 

“Aziraphale,” he said. 

“Yes?” Aziraphale replied. Well, he hadn’t, really. Not consciously. Some sort of autopilot had replied for him.

“We should...” There was the sound of Crowley swallowing. “We should maybe talk.”

“Yes,” replied the A Leave A Message At The Tone Aziraphale. “Of course.”

“About last night.”

“Yes.”

“Not the-- Not the snowboarding Last Night. The uh.... Hnghk... other Last Night.”

Aziraphale inhaled, and the oxygen seemed to inspire some sort of conscious thought, though it was still very much occupied with the fact that Crowley was gently rubbing circles into the back of his hand with his thumb. “Yes, we should.” He knew Crowley was trying - really trying. All of his extra noises were coming out of the woodwork. 

Why was this so difficult? They were writers, for god’s sake. Words should have been the least of their problems. Why was stringing together a sentence so difficult when Crowley was leaning closer to him, when the weight of his legs was still shifting on Aziraphale’s lap? 

“My dear,” he said softly. He looked up, met Crowley’s eyes, and suddenly all the breath was gone out of him. This wasn’t a book, this was the man he simply wanted to touch and no amount of writing could replace the soft, hopeful way Crowley’s hand was clutching his, and the way they were leaning in together and the way their lips skidded against each other, warm and parting, and then catching again.

 _Oh_ , thought Aziraphale absentmindedly when Crowley was already halfway across his lap and their mouths were locked together. Ideally, at this point he would figure out how it had happened, but instead his brain was taking a detour detailing how pleasant the firmness of Crowley’s buttocks was in his hands, and how the man’s long, wiry wingers were cupping his face. And those legs - oh, they were everywhere, a Mobius strip of tangle somewhere vaguely on the couch, though it didn’t matter much once Aziraphale had rolled them and pressed Crowley into the cushions. The legs, at once tamed, wrapped around his hips obediently. 

“Good lord,” he breathed, and in reply Crowley tipped his head back and allowed his throat to be licked and bit while he made gasping noises of his own which presumably meant he agreed with the sentiment. Not that noises were necessary when the loose fabric of his trousers was visibly tenting. As soon as Aziraphale moved down to suck at his collarbone the soft of his belly brushed against it and Crowley hissed and grabbed for his hair. 

There was an idea, thought Aziraphale, who had little else beside it in his head at the moment. He moved further down, and Crowley edged up on his elbows to give him room on the couch (which now seemed much smaller with his head between the man’s legs). 

“Fuck, sorry, I um,” Crowley blabbered as soon as Aziraphale hoisted up the rim of his shirt and pressed his lips to the trail of hair leading tantalizingly down from the navel. “Azira-- Aziraphale, you don’t have to-- I just--”

Aziraphale hesitated and glanced up, but didn’t have a chance to doubt that he had misread the situation because Crowley was doing a very poor job of putting on a protest for the sake of appearances. “May I?” he asked. 

A harsh swallow, and then a tone higher than usual: “Fuck--yeah, please,” followed the request, and Crowley even endeavored to keep looking as the other pushed the trackies down and pressed a gentle, revenant kiss to the top of the red-headed cock.

“Let me take care of you,” he whispered, and then opened his mouth against the sensitive skin again, this time with a completely different purpose.

Another string of incoherent swears fled through Crowley’s teeth as Aziraphale licked his way down the shaft, stroking with his hand at the base the way he had done last night. It was easier now, in his position, and he got to watch the man come apart underneath him as he did so, which was an even better bonus. Clear, scorching need overtook him; everything he had dreamed of for so long was now doable. Above all, it was exactly what he’d said - being able to give Crowley back the pleasure, the release he deserved. Being the one to cause the noises, to see to him in the way that rendered the other unable to even moan properly. 

He had wanted exactly this - the brimming sensation of Crowley’s cock in his mouth, the gentle, tentative way the other was trying not to thrust up into him as he took it deeper. The pleasant, almost-too-much burning as the erection pressed to the back of his throat. Above all it was the way he could feel the other tense beneath him, moan and grab for his hair - the knowledge that Crowley was enjoying this, unable to even control himself - all because of what Aziraphale was doing to him. 

_Good_ , thought Aziraphale. _Let go for me, darling._

And although Crowley could most certainly not read his mind, he seemed to know, instinctively, that it had been implied in the way Aziraphale swallowed him up, and the way his tongue worked at his undershaft. His thighs clenched around the sides of Aziraphale’s head and he curled his fingers into the soft blond hair and arched his back off of the sofa, his lips parted in a silent gasp. His hips were shaking as he thrust upwards, and Azirahale met him with ease, sucking and working at him with the sort of ravaged, hungry devotion he had only been able to give to food so far. This was, in many ways, better than food. It was better than everything he had replaced it with up until this point - including his own fingers on many a sleepless night. Crowley’s taste lingered on his tongue, hot and heavy and paired perfectly with the gentle pressure of each thrust up into the slick warmth of his mouth. 

As Aziraphale relaxed, allowing the other to thrust up fully, they both shut their eyes tighter and pressed closer together, chasing the delicious tension of the orgasm until Crowley was crying out. He trembled as he pulsed into Aziraphale’s throat, and despite his brave attempts to vocalize something to the effect of ‘Aaah, fuck, _yes_ , Aziraph--Ngk, you don’t have to--Ah fuck...’ except with more tongue, Aziraphale remained where he was, pulling up only enough to keep the head at his sore, reddened lips until he was sure the other was absolutely spent. 

Crowley gave one last strangled groan, and only then did Aziraphale finally lift himself up, wiping his mouth almost daintily, inspecting the mess of arms and legs scattered over the other side of the couch like one might appraise a demolition site. The man seemed to have, more or less, been spilled into the cushions like a liquid, pooling conveniently at the more concave points of it and dripping off of the sides. 

They breathed heavily for a few more seconds, and Crowley tucked himself back into his trousers and threw his arm over his eyes. “Aziraphale,” he said quietly. 

“Yes?” said Aziraphale replied, still very much attempting to catch his own breath. He leaned back against the couch, straightened the collar on his cardigan and tried to look as if nothing out of the ordinary had just transpired. 

This was difficult, because the realization of what _had_ was just now beginning to catch up with him. Presumably his common-sense brain-cells were coming back from lunch and discovering the mess that had been made in their absence. 

Crowley took a few deep breaths but seemed to come up empty-handed. “Bloody hell,” he said instead. “If that’s your idea of talking, I’m all ears. Or er. Well. Appropriate bodyparts.”

This did get a soft chuckle out of Aziraphale, and it helped ease the tension back just a smidge, enough to round off the sharp corners of the uncertain silence that was about to overtake them again. He looked down towards his lap, where his hands were now clenched, and traced the pads of his fingertips over the black serpentine ring on his left hand. It was warm, familiar by now. He had almost not noticed it in the past few days, busy as he had been with everything else. But even when he did happen to glance at it, it had always been a strangely comforting presence. 

Kind of like Crowley. Much like Crowley. Exactly like Crowley.

Which was, perhaps, what was stopping him. He was too comfortable like this. Here, on this tiny couch, with the warm afterglow of an orgasm that was not his own (but the memory of which would certainly expedite it later on, perhaps in the shower). That had been the problem the whole day.

He was too comfortable. It was not an earned comfort, but instead one he had fallen into accidentally. There was a fog in his head, making everything look better than it was in reality. He had been honeymooning for a fake wedding.

Which was, frankly, ridiculous of him.

Finally, he breathed in. 

“Crowley, this is--”

He didn’t get to finish, didn’t get to say what it was. What it had been. 

Instead, the sound of a slamming door interrupted them, followed by an all-too-familiar voice that easily broke the closed, safe bubble they had clustered themselves into on the couch. 

“We’re back!!” Harriet hollered from the entryway.

Simultaneously both men flinched apart, as if for the first time noticing the tiny space they had shared. Aziraphale’s heart stuttered and then restarted a mile a minute. 

“Terrific,” Crowley hissed. In mere seconds he was up again, swinging his long legs up and over Aziraphale’s hips where they had been previously lodged, quite comfortably, in what was probably way too intimate a position. 

Crowley seemed to take this in stride - he was currently busy with the act of running his hands through his hair and failing because it was already pulled back into the knot Aziraphale had done for him in the kitchen. The memory seemed to assault him at the same time it did Aziraphale himself because the tips of his ears went red and he swore very quietly under his breath. This was utterly nonsensical in the context of the other thing they had just done on their guest couch, but there was no time to parse that now. More noises were forthcoming, and they both looked at the hallway leading back to the front of the house like a pair of teenagers about to be discovered snogging in the cleaning supply cabinet.

“Oooh, what smells good?” Harriet called.

Crowley reacted first, with a long-suffering sigh. He reached over to the table where he had folded up a pair of sunglasses, shoved them back against his face, and started off in the direction of the entryway. Aziraphale was slower. He leaned down to pick up the Polari Bible from the floor, where Crowley had presumably placed it sometime before Aziraphale assaulted him with impromptu fellatio. Even in the face of shock, the book had been carefully shut and set down instead of being carelessly cast aside, and for some reason this, more than any other gesture, set Aziraphale’s heartstrings to their highest frequency in a painful throb in his chest.

“You fool,” he whispered to himself, pressing the leather binding of the book against his head. “Why did you do that? He didn’t ask you to...” He cut the scolding short and instead set the book on the table and set his face in his hands. Took a few deep breaths. Compartmentalized.

Now was not the time. Now was definitely not the time. Now people were in the house. If anything, they should have gotten this squared away while no one was home, and had it over with before the Dowlings returned. That would have been the wise thing. Instead, what had they done? Relatively speaking, nothing important. 

He had his chance - and he had blown it. 

Quite literally. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” he whispered quietly into his palms, and finally came up for a deep gulp of air. 

After getting his nervous system (a rather fitting name for it at this precise moment) back in order, Aziraphale struggled up and out of the couch and headed out.

The hallway was empty - but there were voices coming from the kitchen. He walked in behind Crowley, who was now facing the Dowlings and reciting the tail-ends of something vaguely apologetic. 

Aziraphale inched closer and, glancing past his shoulder, saw where the Sufganiyot were laid out on a fancy platter in the middle of the counter. If he had to base his observations solely on the way Thaddeus was eyeing them, the plan had gone off without a hitch. 

“I’m sure they’re delicious, Ash, thank you so much!” Harriet was saying. “You really didn’t have to do this! I’m just glad you’re okay, honestly. You didn’t go out again, did you?”

“Nope,” Crowley assured, sticking his hands deep into his back pockets and twisting his wiry form up on tiptoe for a second. To the casual observer this was a reasonably normal undulation. To Aziraphale’s practice eye, this was another anxious tic - the man was clearly trying to work off some nervous energy. “Stayed in all day. Away from all the danger.”

“Honestly, you got lucky last night,” Harriet said, and turned around, beginning to unwrap a scarf from around her neck and conveniently not noticing the choked-off coughing sound Crowley made. “We were just over at the villa and half of their holiday cottages next to the mountains were marked as a danger zone for an avalanche. From the way the winds were last night, everything was blown to the cliffs, and they had to evacuate.”

“Goodness, are they alright?” Aziraphale asked, stepping closer. 

“Yes - in fact...” Harriet shrugged off her hat and ruffled her hair back into place. “We have company!”

Even without glancing up, Aziraphale could hear the eyebrow scrunch in Crowley’s voice. “Company?”

“I hope you don’t mind,” Harriet said, though it was obvious that they didn’t have much choice in it. “But we have extra rooms upstairs, and, well-- All the other available accommodations were really far. They had to look for new places to stay, so we offered that they stay here instead! Seemed safer than traveling elsewhere in this weather. They’re unpacking right now.”

“How many are there?” asked Aziraphale, for lack of other information to gather. 

“Four in total - two couples,” replied Harriet. “The cottages in the avalanche zone were the Romantic Retreat package, I guess. And you two are already staying here, so the more the merrier! We can even have a New Year’s house party! Isn’t that great? And one of the couples is British! You’re going to have something in common!”

“Fantastic,” Crowley ground out through what was a very toothy and clearly very fake grin. 

Aziraphale was about to elbow him but Harriet seemed none the wiser - in fact, she was distracted by something behind them. Aziraphale followed her gaze and turned around, spotting a new figure in the doorway. 

It was an older woman with a rather pleasant, if slightly outdated hairstyle that looked like it would be at home on a Prohibition Era flapper. The rest of her outfit, as Aziraphale tracked it, did not follow this trend, however. Her elements seemed to be stuck somewhere between the confident air of a motherly, doting type of lady and a witch that would tell you your life was Absolutely Fucked using tarot cards.

“Oh, Madame Tracy,” chimed Harriet, stepping forward to wedge herself between the two men and heading towards the guest. “How’s the room?”

“Yes, it’s lovely, thank you,” replied the Madame. “The Mister is very grateful too, though he might not say as much. You’ve really been so kind,” she added with a smile to Mrs. Dowling, though underneath the thin veil of necessary pleasantries she seemed far more interested in eyeing Crowley up. For a moment Aziraphale had the urge to wrap his arm possessively around an elbow, but he shook it off. He was being ridiculous. Firstly, this woman was clearly already married. Whatever the reason for her intense interest in Crowley, it was most likely no more threatening than the typical amount of eye-cover the man got on their typical outings. 

What’s more, there were bigger problems on the horizon. If the woman was British and middle aged, there was a slim chance that she would know Aziraphale’s books. And if she knew his books, then she could not, under any circumstance, be allowed to realize the fact that Aziraphale was on holiday under the pretense of a non-heterosexual marriage.

But that was fine, he tried to reason. It wasn’t time to panic yet - she might not exactly be his target audience. Her interests seemed to edge towards the occult, which meant that perhaps they would get lucky and she would have no idea who he was, and why she had to care about his private life. 

He was in the middle of talking himself into this comfortable, calm conviction, when another person stepped in behind Madame Tracy - and all his hopes of not having to worry promptly flew out of the window. 

“Hello,” said the second woman - this one much younger, American. And much more familiar, thanks to a very specific day of book signing.

“Anathema, hi!” Harriet piped up. “Did you also get settled in?”

“Yeah, thanks,” said Anathema, and glanced around, stopping at Aziraphale. Their eyes met and they both simultaneously smiled in that tight, not-quite-comfortable manner of two people not at all acquainted but most certainly recognizing. 

Aziraphale’s throat closed up, but before he could speak, the woman had moved on to glance at the rest of the kitchen. “Very nice place you’ve got here.”

“You’re welcome to anything you need,” Harriet assured her. “All of you. Just because the weather is less than ideal doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy the holiday - and friendly company!”

“Indeed!” Aziraphale burst out cheerfully, his anxiety popping like an overinflated balloon. “It’s so nice to have you all here! Well, we-- I wouldn’t want to crowd you, ladies. I think until you’re settled in, we should probably... leave you to it.”

“Right,” said Crowley, finally breaking his own silence for the first time since the extra guests had arrived. “Yep. That’s a great idea. Me too. Ciao.”

Taking the cue, Aziraphale stepped around the newcomers and edged towards the main hall again. He could see Crowley following him and immediately picked up pace, just barely resisting a glance over his shoulder. They headed off into the lobby, but instead of stopping he kept going, only pausing at the corner to make sure they were completely out of sight before reaching for the man’s elbow and all but physically shoving him back towards their quarters. 

“We need to talk, _now_!” he whispered, and checked behind them again before stepping around the last corner and resisting putting his hands flat on the other’s buttocks to push him upstairs faster. 

Crowley, who was reacting very well to being manhandled to the room, hissed some noises of agreement over his shoulder and stepped up the pace. In record time they were back in the bedroom which Aziraphale closed and then locked for good measure before whirling around to face his partner in crime. 

“We’re in trouble,” he said, clasping and unclasping his hands in front of him nervously. “That woman - the-- Anathema, I think her name was? She--She knows who I am.”

Crowley stared, his mouth opening and closing without making a sound.

“I met her at a book signing once. She’s-- I don’t think she’s a fan, per se, but she’s clearly young. Probably has that-- Twitter, you called it? If she realizes that I’m here... with you... she-- I... If this gets out, Gabriel will kill me.” Aziraphale closed his eyes and took a deep, shaking breath and ran his hands over his face. 

Crowley still said nothing. He was now rubbing his own neck nervously. “Aziraphale...” he began, voice edging towards his own brand of anxiety. 

Aziraphale elected to ignore it. “Gabriel made me promise that this would only be us and the Dowlings. It was meant to be a private retreat. But... But Harriet probably already introduced us as a couple! And if she puts two and two together... If she releases that to the-- the internet... If news gets around that I’m here with... with a man...”

Crowley looked down. A deep, held breath hissed out from between his teeth. “Aziraphale,” he said again, more shaky this time. 

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale choked out. “Look, I understand that this is a lot - I asked you to come here with me, I asked you to do this, but it-- I don’t know how to fix this! Should we talk to her? Should we just politely ask her not to post anything? Would she listen? What if she’s already posted it? What if Harriet has already--- Oh no.” He groaned and looked back at Crowley desperately. “Maybe she would listen to you. The alternative is just to pretend that we’re _not_ a married couple, and hope Harriet doesn’t give it away - what would be more likely?” A choked, nervous burst of laughter erupted from his chest, edging dangerously near tears. “Either way it’s a risk!” 

“Aziraphale!” Crowley burst out, stepping forward and reaching out like he was about to grab him by the shoulders. His restraint was completely gone, and he was now visibly paler. 

“What!” Aziraphale snapped back. 

“We have. A problem,” said Crowley, lowering his hands slowly. He reached up and took off his glasses with one hand, and massaged the bridge of his nose with the other.

“Yes we do. That’s what I’ve been telling you--”

“No, not that problem. A bigger problem.” Here Crowley stopped completely and looked up, his shoulders sagging.

“A bigger--” His mouth parted in a shapeless vowel, the author attempted to summon the last of his energy to channel his most exasperated tone of voice. “What _possible_ problem could be bigger than ‘A. Z. Fell - author of Christian Self-Help books, out on a private homosexual holiday retreat’?”

For a moment, Crowley winced as if the sentence hurt. Then he drew himself up again. “How about ‘A. Z. Fell, out on a private homosexual retreat with Anthony J. Crowley, the x-rated romance extraordinaire’?” he asked.

Aziraphale’s annoyed scowl dropped like a stone. “What...?” he choked out weakly. 

“The other woman. Madame Tracy - she’s met me before. In person,” deadpanned Crowley. “She knows who I am.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I am now approaching the chasm. I have the last chapter AND epilogue written out, you see, but everything between now and then is uncertain. I'm going to be experimenting, possibly diving back into Crowley POV again to see if that helps, but I'm afraid the next chapter MAY be late? I'll do my best, but no promises!
> 
> Thank you so much for your support everyone!


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damage control is just a hobby at this point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter comes to us a whopping 4 months later. I'm very sorry it's taken me so long. This should be the penultimate chapter. I won't drag out the angst - I already have the next chapter mostly written down. It'll probably be published before the end of the week, and then there's going to be an epilogue, which is a shorter final chapter. 
> 
> Thank you so much to those of you who waited patiently.

* * *

There was something to be said for chemically augmented mental states. As to  _ what  _ that something was... well, that was still a work in progress, a draft. Aziraphale was a well-read man - he knew about the various uses of psychedelics in cult rituals, the hallucinogenic properties of things like resins, and herbs, and mushroom teas and their utilizations in religious ceremonies all over the world, including those of the Catholic church. Still, there was one thing that he felt was often overlooked when discussing altered brain chemistry and how it spurred people to do uncharacteristic things:

Adrenaline was one hell of a drug. 

And so in the evening, long after the chaotic conversation featuring several flowery swearwords and more conspiratorial whispering, all couples at the lodge ended up eating dinner at separate times, in their own rooms by some miraculous twist of faith. The precise miracles in question involved Anathema’s fiance Newt getting food poisoning (which may or may not have been Crowley’s doing) as well as Madame Tracy’s husband getting locked in the library (which was just a thing that happened completely on accident and through no form of scheme whatsoever.)

But his work didn’t end with miracles and waiting for divine intervention - before the day was over, Aziraphale took a more hands-on approach found himself searching for Anathema, who had taken residence by the fireplace long after the main lights were shut off and everyone else had gone to bed for the night. 

She was doing something witchy-looking - presumably trying to scry for meddling middle-aged men nearly who were doing their best to bend the world to their will for the sake of one last chance at anonymity. It was pertinent that she did not succeed, so he felt justified in interrupting her.

“Can’t sleep?”

The woman’s head tilted away from the tarot cards spread out on the floor and she looked over her shoulder at him as if she wasn’t at all surprised. “Just winding down from the long day,” she said. “Are we the only ones still up?”

“Well, it  _ is _ nearing midnight,” Aziraphale said. He settled on the edge of a nearby sofa - not so close as to be threatening, but not so distant as to make conversation difficult. “I didn’t realize you would still be up - you must have had quite a long day, with the avalanche warning and all...”

“Tell me about it. But shit happens, you know. Sometimes literally.” When Aziraphale feigned naivety with a bounce of the eyebrows, she grimaced a bit and obliged an unnecessary explanation: “Newt, my fiance, he got a bit of a stomach bug. Spent most of the time in the bathroom.”

“Oh no, that’s terrible!” Aziraphale gave his most sincere tut. “I’m so sorry to hear that!”

Anathema shrugged. “It’s no big deal.”

“If you want, we-- I have some activated charcoal he can take.”

“Thanks. But he’s sleeping it off now, so he should be better by morning, I hope.” She glanced up directly at him, finally, and paused as if thinking. Or perhaps waiting for him to say whatever it is he planned to say.

Aziraphale looked down at the tarot, took a deep breath, and dove right in.

“I was rather surprised to see you again, I must admit.” His tongue seemed to move on its own this time. The traitor - how could talking to this woman, who held his reputation in her hands, possibly be easier than talking to Crowley? “You probably don’t even remember me, but you came to a bookshop I was doing a signing at, back in London. I realized you were American, but I didn’t think we’d cross paths again so soon.” 

“Ah, yeah,” Anathema said. “Small world.”

So she did remember. Her tone bordered on noncommittal so heavily that it recursed back into being sure of itself - but that was merely a detail. Certainly there had to be some bridge they could build to make this easier than pulling teeth.

With as much hesitancy as would be expected prior to just such dental work, Aziraphale opened his mouth, searching for the next step, but found himself at a loss once more.

A few painfully awkward seconds ticked by.

“So what are you doing here?” she asked, as if realizing she’d left him struggling for a topic. “All the way... across the pond, I believe is the term?”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale. The conversational life raft he’d been thrown was a surprise he hadn’t quite prepared for and it ended up hitting him square in the head. “Oh, just a-- a vacation.” 

Anathema smiled and nodded. It was one of those polite smiles that very clearly showed that the answer was as uninteresting as she had anticipated. “Good for you,” she said, and looked back down at the tarot. The most recent card she’d revealed pictured a man in the act of carrying several sticks - or were they swords? Aziraphale had trouble distinguishing through the flickering light of the nearby fireplace. He closed his eyes and inhaled.

“I need my presence here to remain a secret.” 

Anathema did not move or lift her head, but her eyes shifted visibly to the side, studying him with a bit more scrutiny. 

“I know that’s a very strange thing to ask - well, it’s more of a favor, really. I don’t mean to alarm you, it’s just that... I intended this to be a rather... private retreat for myself. I’m in the process of planning out my next book you see and it’s... I’d rather keep some level of anonymity for the time being. That is to say, I’d rather you not tell anyone I was, ah, here.”

Anathema seemed befuddled, but at least she didn’t mock him. “Alright,” she said instead. Just that -  _ alright _ . Then her brows twitched towards each other and her chin tilted. “Why would I tell someone you were here?”

Well that was embarrassing. She was right, of course. Now he sounded like a senile fool. “Oh, of course, I understand you wouldn’t. Just... Just as a precaution. Because you know me, and just in case someone were to ask. You know - in conversation. In passing. Perhaps. Or on-- on that online... place. The social media.”

Despite her heroic efforts to remain neutral, a soft snort did escape Anathema at this suggested scenario. “I don’t mean to be rude, Mr. Fell,” she said in the most lovingly condescending way possible, “but you rarely show up in my conversations. Social media or otherwise.”

“Right,” Aziraphale said, going red about the ears. “Obviously, I assumed as much, yes--”

“And even if you did somehow make it in, I promise I won’t say a word about your secret American vacation,” she continued, now with a much more playful smile. “Though I daresay even if I let it slip that you were enjoying a holiday on the east coast, it wouldn’t ruffle that many feathers. It usually takes something a little more spicy to get people to pay attention. If you really needed to be worried about bad press, you’d have to try a little harder. Maybe smoke some weed.”

Aziraphale mirrored her laugh, though his was a great deal more awkward. “Oh, is that so?” he asked. “You’re probably right. I’ll keep it in mind for next time.”

“It could be a good PR move, you never know,” she added. “Might even get you some new readers. You’d be surprised how effective bad press is for attracting attention.”

“I have a vague idea,” Aziraphale said with a chuckle and then hesitated. “Not that there’s-- not that there’s anything wrong with... well, that is to say, I don’t condone smoking on grounds of health issues but all other details aside, people should be free to engage in whatever recreational activities they want, provided it doesn’t harm others.”

“Ooh, a forward thinker, are you?” Now Anathema was definitely teasing. There was a glint in her eye - perhaps this was more in line with her interests. 

“I’m not as conservative as you may think, my dear,” Aziraphale chided softly with a smile of his own. “I understand many people assume, due to my public presentation, that my beliefs heavily align with those who share my background, but I would encourage you - if you would forgive my pun - to not judge an author by his book’s cover.”

The woman fell quiet for a moment. Thoughtful - or perhaps calculating. At the very least she wasn’t making fun of him anymore. Or so he thought. “In that case, forget the weed,” she said, eyebrows bouncing up suggestively. “Go for gold and rob a bank.”

Aziraphale’s mouth parted, unbidden, and he couldn’t work fast enough to conceal his shocked disapproval. Consequently, the woman in front of him began to laugh again, clearly having gotten exactly the reaction she was waiting for. 

“Really now,” Aziraphale tutted, feeling his face heat up despite the urge to laugh along with her. “I do have my limits.”

“That’s good to know. And it would make a good headline - A. Z. Fell - ok with marijuana but he has his limits.” 

“Everything in moderation, as they say.”

“Including frivolous vacations to America?”

“That, in particular, must be administered in low doses. Your country has a bad habit of overindulgence. Just the size of this place! My goodness, the amount of money that went into it! I shudder to think of the community advancement it could have been used for.” Aziraphale made his point by doing exactly that. “All for the sake of fancy curtains!”

Anathema snorted. “I really don’t think an Englishman has any right to talk,” she pointed out. 

“I concur, we are not exactly good at moderation ourselves,” Aziraphale said with a sigh. “But personally I think there’s more value in content than appearance.”

“Is that so?”

“Absolutely. I do enjoy expensive things sometimes - dinners are a good example - but even the most exquisitely decorated dinner at a top-rated establishment cannot hold a candle to home-made food prepared with authentic ingredients, no matter how others may complain about presentation. It’s all about the substance!”

“What’s inside matters more than the outside, does it?”

“Of course!”

“So I’m presuming this means your gorgeous husband is also more than meets the eye?”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to reply - unthinkingly, blatantly, with his chest puffed out in what could almost be described as pride - and then the words replayed once more in his head and the pride abruptly turned into cold shock. He felt himself freeze just as he was - eyes wide, mouth parted, staring straight at Anathema who stared unflinchingly back as if she hadn’t said anything odd at all. 

The seconds ticked by - the clock on the far side counted them. One... two... three... four...

_ Say something _ , Aziraphale demanded of himself. But his mind was blank. 

Five... six... seven...

“Sorry,” Anathema said, with the tone of someone who was not the least bit. At most she sounded slightly bemused. “Was that... what you wanted to actually talk about? Or rather - not talk about?”

Aziraphale bit down on his tongue. His gaze dropped while his heart rate jumped up into the hundreds. He smoothed nonexistent wrinkles on his lap. “Erm,” he said very quietly. “Yes. I suppose it is.” In his head, there was an alarm blaring. She already knows?! How does she know?!

_ Or rather -  _ what  _ does she know? _ Aziraphale asked himself simultaneously. Technically, Crowley wasn’t his-- Well, that is to say they were... Only of course it didn’t matter, because at the moment it was the point that they had... Oh this was a right mess.

The clock kept counting. Eight... Nine...

“You look like you’ve just seen a ghost,” Anathema said, voice dipping into the softer end. “Mr. Fell, I’m not about to out you. What you do on your private, secret, American vacations is none of my business. I mean, I assume you’re worried about publicity - and I can see why. But I hardly have a reason to ruin your career over being happily married, of all things.”

A lump teleported directly into Aziraphale’s throat and he felt his mouth twitch into something distantly related to a smile.  _ Happily married _ . 

“That’s very kind of you,” he said softly.

“It’s the bare minimum.”

“Still.”

Anathema looked away again - back at her cards. She lifted the one she had turned over, hummed thoughtfully, and put it back down again with a strangely knowing smile. “I won’t tell anyone I met you here, Mr. Fell. Your secret supermodel husband is safe with me.”

Aziraphle opened and closed his mouth a few times and, having come up with nothing else, simply choked out a “Thank you.” 

It was, against all odds, genuine. For the sake of their farse, what did it matter what Anathema thought? She was going to protect them. She had no plans to out him - and in fact seemed sympathetic. How much more could he ask of her?

Really, wasn’t this the best outcome?

It seemed that it was time to go. Aziraphale didn’t yet know how he felt - the haze of relief and the pounding of blood in his ears made for an excellent cover for the undercurrent of whatever emotions he might have been experiencing. He stood up - though it felt more like he had simply levitated - and headed off, a bit meanderingly, towards the exit.

_ It’s fine, _ he thought to himself.  _ It’s going to be fine. _ A chorus of hallelujahs echoed distantly in the back of his head. 

At the corner he stopped and turned to look at Anathema one last time. She was sitting as he had left her, bathed in the orange glow of the dying fireplace. Still staring down at the card. 

“He is,” he said quietly, and Anathema looked up at him one last time.

“What?”

“More than meets the eye,” Aziraphale said softly, smiled, and walked away.

* * *

By the time Aziraphale sneaked into the bedroom Crowley was already lying bundled up in his burrito of covers and blankets. Only his eyes remained visible - and they widened when he saw his co-conspirator, although he made no move to escape from his protective prison of linens. 

“Well?” he hissed as Aziraphale approached. 

There was probably room for subtlety, for careful holding-back, for lets-not-jump-to-conclusions, but Aziraphale didn’t have the energy for any of that. He was full of adrenaline, relief and a sleep-deprived flavor of giddiness. “It’s fine,” he announced. 

Crowley wiggled his chin free of the knitted throw he had turtled his head into. “Fine?” he asked suspiciously. 

“Fine,” Aziraphale repeated. “Excellent, in fact. Perfectly safe, my dear boy. Tickety-boo!”

Crowley’s eyebrows stitched together in incomprehension. “Tickety--”

“I talked to her - the girl. Anathema. And she - she’s just lovely!” Aziraphale paced to the end of the bedroom to his trunk and began to pull out his sleeping shirt. “Very kind, very sharp. She said it’s not a problem. She doesn’t plan to talk to anyone, said she is perfectly fine with keeping it a secret!” 

“Oh,” said Crowley. He seemed to be taking it upon himself to be hesitant for the both of them. “Right. That’s... yeah. Good.”

“Jolly good,” confirmed Aziraphale in a sing-song voice. 

“Jolly,” echoed Crowley and unrolled himself from the covers. Flopping on his back, he stared at the ceiling for a while as Aziraphale bustled about from bedroom to bathroom, preparing to finally sleep. He hadn’t moved after Aziraphale showered, nor while Aziraphale brushed his teeth. He remained flat on his back, eyes fixed on the ceiling, until the bed dipped with the weight of another, at which point he finally seemed to unfreeze and clear his throat with awkward nonchalance. This typically signaled that he was trying very hard to be casual about something.

“I’ll talk to Madame Tracy tomorrow,” he said. 

“That would be ideal,” agreed Aziraphale, slotting his legs under the heavy blankets on his side. “The sooner the better, I think. I can wake you up if you’d like.”

Crowle’s nose scrunched once in displeasure but then he seemed to relent. “Might do, she’s likely to be an early riser.”

“Better to do it before the day starts.”

“S’pose.” 

“It’s decided then.” Aziraphale tapped at his phone a few times to set the alarm and then set it back on his table. The light at the bedside was smothered - the bed creaked heavily a few more times in the darkness. He edged down into the mattress and kneaded the pillow a few times to adjust the position and then, finally, it was silent. 

Too silent. 

Now that the euphoria was wearing off, Aziraphale’s head was taking its slow elevator ride down from cloud nine. The metaphorical fog was beginning to thin as he neared lower altitudes. Thoughts of the earthly variety filtered back into view - and in between the hairline splits in the continental plates he could even glance a few ideas of the more hellish flavor. 

That is to say: Crowley was beside him, in bed, not moving an inch. They had both returned to their starting positions on the bed; two feet apart, not touching. Whatever bodyheat Aziraphale had previously used as a siren call to lure the other closer was now deafeningly absent and in its place was the uncomfortable heat death of their list of excuses. Excuses for not talking - then excuses for touching - then excuses for a fair bit  _ more _ touching - and not talking about the touching. 

_ Now would be a good time to talk, _ said Aziraphale’s more logical half.  _ You’re alone with him, the situation with Anathema has been smoothed over, this whole trip is getting too complicated. You need to say things out loud. _

He opened his mouth to do so - and was immediately interrupted by Crowley turning over, shuffling, adjusting his blankets, and then falling still again.

Aziraphale closed his mouth. His heart was pounding in his ears. His fists clenched of their own accord. It took all he had to slowly let out his held breath at a slow, non-incriminating pace. 

_ On the other hand, _ he thought nervously,  _ why talk now _ ? There was still work to be done. In the morning, Crowley had to do damage control on his side of things. He needed his wits about him to get that done. That meant he needed to rest. Getting into a long and emotionally exhausting discussion now, when it was already past midnight, was potentially going to fail their whole scheme.

Beside him, Crowley stirred again. He was moving an awful lot - in all directions but one. The one Aziraphale wanted him to move in. Towards him. 

_ Does he not want to risk something happening? _ thought Aziraphale.  _ Or is it that he simply doesn’t want it to? And for that matter, do I want it to? _

With a guilty twang inside his stomach, the man bit down on his own tongue to contain the swear word scratching at his lips. Of course - of course he wanted to. That was the whole problem, wasn’t it? He wanted to have Crowley press up against him, to feel the contact of their skin which made their proximity real. He wanted Crowley. All of him - selfishly, ravenously, uncontrollably  _ wanted _ . 

And he still hadn’t properly said any of it out loud. Still hadn’t even decided if it was a good idea to say it out loud. It probably wasn’t.

Beside him, Crowley rolled over - again - and made a choice noise through his nose which was typically associated with his ‘fuck this shit’ face. Even without seeing the face itself, the phonetic version was familiar enough to guess that the man was similarly afflicted with having a mind that was violating the late-night noise ordinances.

“Can’t sleep?” Aziraphale murmured.

Crowley flinched and lifted his head to look at him, wide golden eyes glittering in the darkness. “Christ,” he muttered. “Don’t scare me like that. Thought you’d gone to sleep.”

“All your shuffling was bound to rouse me even if I had,” Aziraphale pointed out. 

“Never has before,” Crowley countered, punching the pillow a few times and settling his head back onto it a bit more harshly than necessary. He seemed to be crossing his arms over his chest under the covers. “You’re usually dead to the world.”

“I’m a light sleeper,” Aziraphale protested, not quite knowing why. “I wake up at the smallest noise.”

“Light sleeper my arse,” Crowley said. “Three days ago I was playing Candy Crush at 2am and left the sound on by accident - you didn’t even stir.”

“You were playing what?” Aziraphale asked, squinting in befuddlement. 

“It’s a mobile-- nevermind.” Crowley was smiling now, very subtly, probably under the impression that Aziraphale couldn’t see his expression, steeped as it was in the shadows of the room. “Maybe it’s because whatever sleeping arrangements you have at home is an heirloom from Cleopatra. I’d be a light sleeper too if the British museum kept trying to break in to steal my mattress. This is a proper one, like I have in my flat. ‘S memory foam.”

Aziraphale quirked an eyebrow. “Certainly does bring back memories,” he murmured, mostly to himself.

Crowley stilled. 

Aziraphale waited for a beat, and then drew in a steadying breath. “I was wondering,” he said lightly, against his better judgement (the quality of said judgement was comparative and was only better by the function of all other, previous judgements being piss-poor). “Are you actually cold in the evenings? Because, for all your complaining, I find you sprawled out like a starfish every morning, and you don’t seem to have much problem with the temperature.”

He saw Crowley’s throat bob nervously. “Get plenty warm during the night,” he muttered. 

“So the preliminary proximity is just... strategic?”

Aziraphale watched as Crowley opened his eyes again and gazed back at him across the foot or so that separated them in the bed. He seemed to be flushed, and there was a nervous glint to his expression, as if he was almost contemplating bolting.

“If it bothers you--” he began. 

“I didn’t say it did.”

A held breath hissed out from between Crowley’s clenched teeth. “I didn’t know if you wanted-- Didn’t want to impose--”

“Impose?” asked Aziraphale on the tail end of a breathless laugh. “This is your bed as much as mine, you’re not going to impose--”

“Onto your side, I meant.”

“You didn’t have any problems imposing before.”

“T’was before this all went... Hnngk...” Crowley chewed some word up and then swallowed it up instead of spitting it out. “I dunno. Pear-shaped.”

“Pear shaped,” Aziraphale repeated thoughtfully. Then he edged closer. “I like pears.”

Crowley mirrored him - although it was impossible to tell if it was by his own volition, or if he was simply being propelled by the vibrating shivers of anxiety. “Bet you do,” he muttered. 

There was a smash-cut. 

At least that’s how Aziraphale felt it happened; one second they were staring at each other across the foot of space on the bed between them and the next they were snogging furiously, hands in hair, chests flush together and shirts riding up. 

Everything was a combination of too cold and hot at once - the blankets Crowley had wrapped himself in so carefully were already thrown to the side and the cool of the room prickled at exposed skin but at the same time, every inch of them which touched was burning. And a lot of inches were touching - a few of them harder than others. Those particular parts were currently being eagerly rubbed against the junction of Aziraphale’s hip while Crowley made a choked-off noise in the back of his throat and immediately tried to pass it off for a cough. Aziraphale was not convinced.

Not that he had any right to talk, given that his own mirroring piece of anatomy was currently making itself a cosy home against the press of the other man’s thigh.

“Good lord,” he said, laughing against the side of Crowley’s mouth. “Is that what really kept you up?”

“My mind may have strayed a bit,” Crowley admitted breathlessly. 

“Oh? To what?” 

“A few inches to my right, it so happens.”

Aziraphale bit his lip, glad for the cover of darkness that hid his smile. “A  _ few _ inches?” he asked, pretending to be affronted. “Aren’t you always the one waxing poetic about how size doesn’t matter--”

“I’m talking about the distance on the bed you absolute _ bastard, _ ” Crowley hissed, sounding utterly delighted - and kissed at his neck, involving a few too many teeth in the process.

“Language -  _ ah...! _ \- darling,” Aziraphale gasped, and Crowley responded with a full-body shudder and a sound that was almost pained.

“Don't-- don’t  _ call _ me that, you don’t know what it _ does _ to me, Aziraphale...”

“Oh, I think I have a pretty good idea,” Aziraphale replied, and his hand, which had been happily skidding along Crowley’s lower back, changed directions and moved to his front, fingers wiggling under the waistband. He found what he expected there and the erection slid easily into his waiting palm. As soon as he was tracing the precum off of the slit with his thumb Crowley whined lewdly and went completely boneless in his arms. It was all the encouragement he needed to enclose it in his fist and drag a few slow strokes up the length. 

“Fuck, fuck, shit! Not-- don’t stop, don’t, please--” The protests drowned into moans and then resurfaced in words a few seconds later, though without any added clarity on the subject of his pleading. Aziraphale’s hand slowed just enough to allow him some respite, but this also meant that Crowley was once again lucid and able to engage in his own wiles. 

“Wanna touch you,” he rasped and reached in, hands searching between the layers of their limbs and clothes. It didn’t take too long, not with his smart fingers on the job, and it helped that Aziraphale was already plenty hard and swelling more every second that Crowley struggled his way into his trousers. As the grip settled around his base, they both let out a grateful pair of sighs and Crowley shoved himself impossibly closer. “Jesus, fuck, you are not one to complain about size,” he said, voice trembling with something that may have been masquerading as a laugh, though it was quite plainly a wheeze of desperation. 

_ Compliments will get you nowhere _ , Aziraphale wanted to say and, merely a second later, realized that compliments were not Crowley’s weapon of choice anyway. It was those damned fingers - the delightful way the man was dragging up his length, rolling his palm into him, pressing his erection up against his stomach. Even with the minimal space they had, Crowley was evidently determined to do his damned best without sacrificing an inch of skin to skin contact. 

And that was fine- wonderful, really - except Aziraphale was beginning to realize that his imagination was taking him further and further, and if he wanted reality to tag along, he had to bite the bullet and be explicit. He had to talk - say what he wanted. Exactly in the way he hadn’t been able to do for years.

“Fuck me.”

Alright, that had been easier than expected.

Crowley froze. There was a momentary pause of confuddlement, of concern, and the intense, lust-clouded eyes even had the audacity to skip downwards as if Aziraphale wasn’t making any sense. “What...?” he choked out. “Is something wrong? I--”

“No.” Aziraphale almost choked on a spurt of incredulous laughter, suppressed only by his embarrassment and quickly reddening face. “That wasn’t... I meant... it wasn’t an expletive, my dear, that was a request.”

Crowley’s eyes returned to Aziraphale and for a second it seemed like he found the suggestion rather reasonable, and then the deer-in-the-headlights look overwhelmed it immediately. Whatever train of thought raced around the man’s head seemed to be screeching to a break on the tracks and all the noises associated with it came spilling out. “Wh-- That-- Nghk... Sh-- Azira.... I, uh, um, we-- you...”

“We don’t have to,” Aziraphale added. Now it was his turn to look concerned. “I just thought... Since... Ah... You do have the rubbers and--”

“You mean the ones for my balloon animals?” Crowley asked, voice jumping a few octaves. It was unclear whether he intended for it to sound as outraged as it did or if it was a fluke, but the result was the same - a beat later they were barely holding back explosive laughter, both having forgotten their awkward hesitancy in the newfound hilarity of the situation. 

“I thought...” Aziraphale sucked in a deep breath between giggles. “Forgive me, I thought - foolishly - that you had another use planned for them.”

“No, no, that’s not-- I can... I can think outside the box,” Crowley promised, suppressing his chortle. “Definitely, we can definitely... find another use.” He gently replaced his hands on Aziraphale’s hips - which were currently straddling his thighs - and slid them down. “We can get creative.”

“Creative,” Aziraphale echoed, falling back into the tempting lull of ministrations. “Yes, that does sound nice.”

He leaned back down again to connect their lips and whatever reply Crowley had cooked up was pressed up against his teeth and swallowed. And then bitten, gently but insistently, and then devoured whole. The room lulled back into blissful, anticipatory silence, punctuated only by the barely-caught breaths between the two of them. Crowley’s noises resurfaced a few more times, but each one perished before it came to fruition, or staggered out as whines and grateful sighs. 

At length, through some unspoken agreement, the decision was beyond the point of no return. Lubricant was uncapped, some of it was spilled on the bed and more of it on the two of them. The rubbers were extracted from the suitcase, and then immediately dropped from shaking hands. Among those that fell to the floor one was hurriedly grabbed up again, at which point a much stronger and insistent hand prompted a swift return to the mattress. 

“Are you sure?” Crowley asked again - he had already asked once, when he had ripped open the condom. “Is it enough?”

“Relax,” Aziraphale said - for the third time. He eased Crowley back into the headboard. Eased himself over the man’s hips. Eased his gaze past the safe cover of his lashes, peeking out at Crowley’s tentative, desperate expression as they eased together - and then closer, deeper, until Crowley was biting back moans against his chest, breaths hot and wet, chest heaving hard - and hips heaving harder.

“Just like that, love,” Aziraphale said. He said many things - somehow it was easier suddenly. Things like “Slower,” and “yes,” and “perfect,” and “darling” - he said it over and over and over again, clasping Crowley’s face in his hands, pressing his forehead against the man’s, sometimes whimpering when a thrust hit him particularly well or the feeling that he never wanted this to end hit infinitely better. 

Soon he was sweating, and slipping from their controlled pace, and then Crowley was slipping too - down the headboard, into the mattress where Aziraphale gripped his hair the way they both loved, until he was fully immersed in the other, in the tight urgency of their motions. Each thrust seemed to rock deeper into him, each one spreading him open more, making Aziraphale moan and keen and shake apart while Crowley waited below to catch the pieces and eagerly press them back together. 

The dark room, an endless void where nothing else existed including consequences, had become their cradle. Something soft, fragile, and incredibly precious was growing there. Aziraphale felt it inside of himself as intensely as he could feel Crowley; it was an echoing melody to the bursts of pleasure coiled deep in his abdomen. He felt himself shaking and knew that the hairline fractures of his needs and wants were growing into valleys. They were opening up just like he was - and Crowley was flowing in, filling in the spaces that had been previously empty with such perfect precision he knew that long after this was over, he would still feel the burning shape of the other inside him. 

The orgasm he had been trying to hold on to for so long released like the coming of a tide. It burned through, scorching every part until Aziraphale wasn’t sure what his nerve endings felt. Until he couldn’t tell where he ended and Crowley began - until he couldn’t tell if they had an end at all, or if they were simply an interocked knot, an ouroboros, twisted in a Mobious strip of desperate togetherness, 3 dimensional organisms attempting to ascend to something greater than through an urgent, purely instinctive amalgam.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale breathed one last time as they crested. “I--”

Crowley reached up to grasp his fumbling hands and caught the words before they could escape and swallowed them. 

“I know,” he whispered back.

_ I know. _

* * *

The alarm was punctual - and this was frustrating beyond belief to Aziraphale, who had, for the first time in his life, not beaten it to the punch. He groaned, peeled his cheek off of Crowley’s nest of tangled curls, and reached blindly with his free hand to slap some sense into it. 

“Whozzit,” Crowley grumbled. A feat worthy of respect, given that 90% of his mouth was firmly glued to Aziraphale’s shoulder. 

“Not who, dear boy,” said Aziraphale once the pinging noises had been silenced. “It’s morning. Time for you to find your Madame Tracy.” 

The sky outside was still dark, although the beginning of a softer, golden gradient was sneaking out from behind the mountains. The world was quiet, soft and pliable between the wooden curves of the cottage and the soft folds of white linens. He stretched his spine as much as he could do from his slightly convoluted position in between the mattress and the other occupant of the bed and then sighed contentedly when he heard a pop. 

Crowley had not budged. This was fine - in theory. In theory, Aziraphale was more than okay with this setup continuing into the afternoon. However, his more logical sectors also began to come back online and the new day beckoned. “We really ought to get up. There’s no telling--” He hiccuped in shock, interrupting himself mid-sentence in order to comment on a new development a few inches to his left. “Crowley, stop! That tickles!”

“Shan’t,” muttered Crowley, and burrowed his nose deeper into the fold of skin between Aziraphale’s arm and side. “Can’t make me.”

“Oh for goodness’ sake,” snorted Aziraphale. He wiggled back again, only to yelp when the pursuit continued. “Anthony, really! We don’t have that much time, and our integrity is at stake! Madame Tracy will probably get up soon and she might go around talking to others!”

“Might not,” protested Crowley from somewhere in the vicinity of Aziraphale’s ribs, where he had recently traversed.

Aziraphale’s mind stuttered - a part of him wanted to protest for the sake of the game - he loved playing this... whatever it was. The pull and retreat that they had going, the taciturn dance of pleasure and denial and the consequential tension therein. The other part of him was aware of another sort of dance - the spinning, circular waltz around the domesticity of it all. Here he was, drowning in at least three pillows and two blankets flanked by the man of his dreams going suspiciously further down his--

“Tsk--!” he bit out as if hoping to scare off a naughty animal from a poorly-hidden bag of kibble. “Crowley! Where is that mouth going?” 

No answer was forthcoming. No answer was necessary, because both of them knew anyway. What’s more, both of them knew that no matter how much Aziraphale protested for the sake of appearances, there were other parts of him that were much more truthful. That didn’t even include the obvious organs - but it did include his hands, which were curling into the mess of ginger hair, and his legs, which were wrapping around the shoulders they were conveniently close to. 

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathed - sighed - moaned. “Alright. Maybe... maybe just a little...”

At that exact moment, his phone went off again.

He clenched his thighs a little tighter, bit his lip, and then groaned in resignation when the ringing didn’t ease. Keeping half a brain on the teeth gently grazing his thigh, he reached over to turn off the alarm a second time and...

“ _ Shit _ !”

Crowley’s head popped up - or rather, the blankets covering Crowley’s head popped up, tenting the covers in a way they never would naturally - especially given how quickly Aziraphale’s arousal had withered. 

“Wot?” came the muffled voice from between his legs. 

“Noth--” Aziraphale bit the end of the word off and swallowed, propping himself up on his elbows. His hands went to his hair first, then to the blankets, then changed their mind and u-turned to tugging at his pajama collar. “...It’s--” 

At this point, there was no escaping it. Crowley was already tunneling out, looking disheveled and flushed and so devilishly handsome--

_ No!  _ Aziraphale’s mind admonished. “It’s Gabriel,” he announced. 

It was unclear whether the words were meant to have a punishing effect on himself or Crowley or both, but whatever the option, the result was All Of The Above. Immediately, the mood dropped a few degrees below freezing and Crowley exhaled like a steam engine. Something resembling a train whistle started up in his nose. 

“Aziraphale, no,” he protested, reaching up to interfere with the phone and Azirapahle’s finger before they could make contact. “He can  _ wait _ \--”

“What?” 

“This motherfucker calls at the most inconvenient times and I’m beginning to see a pattern--”

Aziraphale recoiled, refusing to connect the dots out of habit. “I have no idea what you could possibly mean.”

“First - that morning! Then in the car-- just let it ring, he can wait until--” 

“Until what?” Aziraphale asked quietly, holding the phone back. 

Crowley exhaled again, and this time he turned away. The auburn hair shielded his eyes, filling in while the sunglasses took a day off on the edge of the bedside drawer. “Fine,” he hissed, sitting up. “Fine, whatever. Why not. Third time’s the charm.” As he straightened and swung his legs over to the edge of the mattress, Aziraphale could feel it getting lighter. As for himself, he was only getting heavier. 

The phone kept ringing. He looked down at it, closed his eyes and dragged in a steadying breath of air. 

_ Beep. _ “Hello--”

_ “Took you long enough, sunshine! It’s not a holiday anymore, Aziraphale, no reason to sleep in! What, getting a little too comfortable, are we?” _

Ignoring the weights someone had taped to his eyelids, Aziraphale peeled them open and gazed across the room, picking up the scattered remains of his self restraint. “Not at all. Just had a late night discussing plans with Thaddeus the other day and--”

_ “That IS excellent news! Listen, speaking of that - I think you really got to him!” _

“Pardon?”

_ “He sent me an email last night. He is REALLY impressed with you! Shocking, I know, but we’re counting our blessings.” _

Aziraphale closed his eyes again. This way, the fact that his eyeballs were rolling back into his head was just a fact attributed to gravity and could not be assigned any intention. He could hear Crowley messing around in the bathroom, presumably getting ready to shower, or perhaps using Aziraphale’s toothbrush to clean the toilet. “That’s great.”

_ “Yes, sure-- listen, he offered us a deal already, so I’m on my way to the airport. I needed to be in America over New Year’s anyway, so I’m just going to pop in, go over a contract with him and get the travel details--” _

“Wait--what?!”

Gabriel obligingly slowed, but the mocking tone more than made up for the gesture.  _ “I’m heading over. Flying in. Will be there before the day’s up. Still with me?” _

“You’re... you can’t wait until the trip is over? We still had plans to--”

_ “Well there’s only so many days in a year, Aziraphale, and this one has almost ended. Waste not want not - and we do want, don’t we?” _

Even if he had not been struggling to come up with an answer, it wasn’t as if Gabriel had given him a choice anyway. A superficial second-long pause later he was plowing on ahead:  _ “The point is, he is more than happy to pay for your trip across the states, and he’s already asked me for an itinerary of the places you’ll be able to visit, so I’m going to get that together for him. The budget on this guy is INcredible, and I figure if we play our cards right I can book you as early as the end of January. If all goes well, you can even cut this trip short, go back to London to get your things and be on the road again before February begins!” _

“What...?” Aziraphale choked out, quieter this time. “Wh-- But we didn’t even discuss this yet, I really would rather... I would rather...”

_ “Take your precious time? Yes, I’m sure you would, but Aziraphale, pal, listen...”  _ Gabriel’s voice smoothed into something impossibly more viscous.  _ “We don’t have time to sit around and wait for you to collect your customary amount of dust. This is a big break, do you understand? This is an all-expenses paid year-long vacation. When Thaddeus says jump - you can’t take three months to do research about the ideal height! You just have to do it. Hit the ground running! Maybe even literally! It’ll be good for your health.” _

Gravity tugged Aziraphale’s elbows until they were digging into his knees, pushed at his shoulders until they bent down and curved his spine. He sank the free side of his face into an open palm and tried very hard not to collapse in on himself. 

Cut the trip short... return to London immediately - and be on the road again? For who knows how long? 

“I... Gabriel, I understand you want to take this... this opportunity... but I really cannot just cut my trip short. Thaddeus and Harriet offered me their hospitality, and... And...”

_ “Yes, yes, I get that. You’re trying to be polite, and it’s admirable Azirapahle, really, it is. You have a heart of gold, I respect that, I do. But the thing is, Thaddeus already told me there are some extra visitors staying at the inn--” _ He chuckled, and there was a dangerous, cutting quality to it.  _ “Not that it’s your fault, of course, unforeseeable circumstances and all, but you understand how this puts you in jeopardy, don’t you? Especially given how you are there with an... ahem... extra guest?” _

The author felt his fingertips grow numb, and his head and then the rest of his body quickly followed suit. He clutched his phone harder. “That’s um-- That's not an issue; I’ve already made sure--”

_ “Sure you have, sunshine. Sure you have... I just prefer to help out a bit! Two heads is better than one, after all. Best have me there as a backup if anyone gets the wrong impression. After all, you’re going on tour, seeing and being seen by lots of people! And we want to start off on the right foot, don’t we?” _

The cold persisted. “Y-yes. Of course. I understand, but Thaddeus and Harriet already know, and they’ve been very accommodating, didn’t mind at all, so I feel it’s not as bad as we might have thought! And it’s not as if we can--”

_ “Ask them not to mention it to your hundreds of thousands of readers?” _

The line was quiet for a beat. Then Gabriel laughed. 

_ “Of course we can! These people are politicians, Aziraphale, they’ve covered up worse things. They deal in secrets like currency. Look, we’ve already spoken about this. Your little homey family time was fun, I’m sure, but publicity is a different game. We agreed a long time ago what your front-facing identity would be.” _

“But--”

_ “Aziraphale.” _ All at once, Gabriel’s voice was a lot less sunny, and a lot more lightening.  _ “We had a deal.” _

Aziraphale bit his tongue. 

_ “I held up my end of the bargain. You wouldn’t leave me hanging now, would you?” _

The gravity doubled, tripled. Whatever mass was forming in the cavernous pit of his chest was threatening to spin itself into a black hole. Holding his palm over his eyes and pushing up, Aziraphale could almost see stars, distant constellations. Even though he knew it was merely a trick, it still felt like a pleasant escape. Being swallowed up by the event horizon was a fate much preferred to whatever this was shaping out to be.

_ “Aziraphale?” _ Gabriel prompted.

“No,” he forced out. “Of course not. I understand.”

_ “I knew you would.” _ The tone lightened up again, but merely a fraction.  _ “In that case, I will see you tonight when I get in. Oh, and... tell your buddy Ashtoreth to pack his bags. I’ll have him on a plane out of here tomorrow. Less risks that way, he might slip up if we let him stay here alone.” _

“He wouldn’t,” Aziraphale muttered weakly. It was his last, desperate attempt at redemption.

_ “Just do it,” _ Gabriel sighed impatiently. 

There was no end greeting. Instead the line simply cut and was replaced by a dull, echoing roar coming from inside Aziraphale’s own ears. He managed to peel the screen off his cheek, but even then, the noise did not lessen. The pressure of a thousand sins was making his eardrums thrum, twisting him into a spaghetti strip of nerves and electrical impulses, something barely recognizable, barely human. 

He saw Crowley’s feet first as the man walked out of the bathroom and stopped halfway, just a few paces back from the bed. 

“What happened this time...?” he asked.

Aziraphale struggled to take a breath. Then struggled to exhale it. 

_ Same thing as what happened the last two times _ , he thought to himself. 

Red ink on his rough draft.

* * *

Aziraphale was no stranger to the backspace button. They went way back. 

In fact, he doubted he could have ever survived without it. He always needed a back door. An out. A way to erase poor decisions, to get rid of a sentence that had taken the incorrect turn. 

Much as he despised some of the more excessive new age adaptations, the digital word editor held a special place in his heart. Unlike the typewriter which required extra steps to cleanly erase his past sins, the blinking line of a pristine white screen demanded no such efforts. One merely had to _ tap-tap-tap _ the back button as many times as necessary before they were back to a new beginning, completely devoid of any reminders of things he had written... things he had done. Or not done. 

Sometimes, he wrote things he really oughtn’t have. Sometimes, he did not backspace enough. Sometimes, he even published these things under a tongue-in-cheek pseudonym on a website called The Flaming Sword. At that time, it really felt like a non-issue. The backspace button was still there, waiting for when he came calling. It could all be undone if things went too far - and indeed, it was eventually. Line by line, until the website was clean again, in the hands of two young entrepreneurs who were none the wiser to its rather dirty past. 

But the backspace button was not always there when he needed it. No matter how much his ring finger habitually twitched towards the edge of his knee as he sat in bars, and restaurants, and theaters, the phantom feeling of being able to erase his missteps never translated to real life. Perhaps this was why he was never able to fully give up Crowley. 

In fact, he felt he had underused the backspace button over the past 6 years. Many things could have been undone, unwritten - emails could be unsent, words could be unspoken. The poor decisions he had made could have all been previously returned to their safe state of undoing if he had only taken the time to use it. To backspace. To erase. To change his mind, to hold back. 

Perhaps, most obviously this could - or should - have been done two weeks ago. Sitting on Crowley’s couch, in Crowly’s apartment, he should have backspaced the idea clear from his mind before it even came to fruition. 

Yes, that would have been better. That would have been kinder, safer for them both, better in the long run. 

Instead... Instead they had this.

“This is bullshit.”

Aziraphale steadied himself, one hand on the wall, gaze stubbornly focused on the lightening sky outside. “I know it’s not fair to you, I understand. You don’t have to take the ticket, I’m sure Harriet wouldn’t mind if you just stayed--”

“I’m not talking about me!” Crowley interrupted. “I’m talking about you!”

Aziraphale bit his lip, watching a droplet of condensation run its race down towards the bottom of the deck doors. “There’s nothing to talk about. I have a book to write, we had a deal to make, so... so we did. That’s a good thing.”

“Is it?” 

Another deep sigh would not make things better, but it was worth a try. 

“Look at yourself! You’re miserable, Aziraphale! You’re getting yanked around by your chain with this asshole, you’re not having any fun writing and now you’re supposed to travel around the states for a year sleeping in a new Bed and Breakfast every few weeks? You’re the biggest homebody I know! I’ll give you a month, tops, before you either wither up and die from lack of old books or just go berserker and start breaking the shins of every single bigot in sight.” 

“Crowley!” 

“I’m only slightly exaggerating.”

“What do you propose I do instead? Refuse? Call the entire thing off?”

Crowley splashed up his hands. “Yeah? Sure? Whyever not?”

Tutting in disapproval was not really doing him any favors, but he continued to do it anyway, even after glancing in Crowley’s general direction didn’t help. “I’m not abandoning my career because a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity may cause me a little discomfort.”

“What about if your entire career is causing you discomfort?” Crowley demanded. “I’m not saying stop writing - I’m just saying, this whole one-evolutionary-branch-to-the-left of Televangelist isn’t really doing it for you and it’s not going to change if you just work harder. You don’t have to keep doing this! You can take his budget and do your own tour! I can... I can come with you, we can go off together!”

Aziraphale’s eyes snapped up, trembling for a point of focus on Crowley’s desperate face, trying to decide whether it would be more or less painful to look into his eyes. For once, he wished the man was wearing glasses. It would make this so much simpler, so much less painful.

“Go off... together?” Aziraphale echoed weakly. “You’re being ridiculous... Listen to yourself!”

“I am! Wish you’d join me!” Crowley fired back. 

“Just because this lifestyle has worked for you--”

“I’m not suggesting it because it worked for me - it hasn’t, by the way. I’m still under my own publisher’s boot, but I do think it would work for you. For us.”

“Us?!” Aziraphale demanded, now intently looking anywhere but the man’s face. Floor, rugs, clothes strewn across the floor... An open suitcase. An open box. An open condom wrapper-- “There’s no  _ us _ , Crowley...”

Crowley bent backwards, his limbs folding upwards like a cricket’s legs until his fingers almost obscured the facial part of his full-body eyeroll. “Aziraphale, we’re practically dating--”

“Dating?!” echoed Aziraphale, his voice breaking on its edge and careening off the deep end. “We’re not  _ dating _ !”

“We _ are _ !” Crowley rebuffed hotly, as if he was not the least bit thrown by the denial. “What do you call the last six years then? Going out for dinner? The opera, the concerts, long walks in the park at night... you’ve thought of it, I know you damn well have! And fuck-- I don’t want to talk about it now, I know you damn well don’t want to talk about it, but you have to at least acknowledge the time we’ve spent together here, these last six days and what that means!”

“That’s-- Be as it may, that’s not... We’re literary cohorts - collaborators, if you stretch it, even rivals--”

“And that’s all that ever was to you?”

“That’s all it ever  _ should _ have been!”

The room, stifled in silence, grew a few inches colder. In spite of this they both stood their ground, locked in a magnetic dance of both poles, shaking from tension and trying to break free of the conversational orbit. 

“You know what, I change my mind,” Crowley said quietly, tightening his jaw and showing some teeth. He crossed his arms over his chest and planted his legs firmly at shoulder width, possibly for the first time in his life standing in a way that was not compromising him to gravity. “We  _ should _ talk about it. But maybe not in the context of this trip. Let’s maybe go a little further back. How about the last six years? Just for funsies, stab in the dark number there. This whole...” He looked away and made a vague dismissive motion with his hand, like a conductor gesturing to an orchestra that was far below his pay grade. “Not-relationship. As you say.”

It didn’t matter that it had been Aziraphale’s idea. It still hurt to hear him say it. 

But it had gone on long enough. He had to reap what he had sown.

“Crowley, that day six years ago, we--” Aziraphale stopped, took a deep breath, and started anew. “We slept together. That was all. That was all that was. Nothing else happened after that. We never said-- You never said you wanted-- you didn’t talk about it! You never brought it up - even once! Six years - you had plenty of chances!”

“I certainly did!” Crowley barked out, and groaned as if admitting it was painful. “None of which I took, yes, I admit. That’s on me. But neither did you!” he accused, jabbing a finger back at Aziraphale.

“Because I didn’t deserve to... I couldn’t... I couldn’t ask that of you!”

“Couldn’t ask  _ what _ of me?”

“Anything!” Aziraphale dragged in a trembling breath. “I couldn’t ask anything of you! I didn’t want to put you in that position! Didn’t want to ask you to tie yourself down to me! After what I became? After the mess my life was? To ask you to come and comfort me and be my - what? My secret lover? You think I would ever try to coerce you into that sort of selfish situation? What could I even say?” he demanded desperately. “ _ Oh, hello, Crowley, dear boy - would you mind going steady with me? Perhaps snogging on my couch once a week - but you see, any time someone sees us together in daylight, we have to instantly pretend to not know each other! Isn’t that a great basis for a relationship! _ ”

Crowley’s mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out. 

Aziraphale continued, rapidly gaining momentum and gesturing mockingly with his hands. “ _ Certainly, my dearest Anthony, _ ” he exclaimed in a caricature of his own voice, “ _ I do so desperately want to wake up with you every morning but you see, in order to do that, we would both have to sleep in the closet! Because I’m not out to any of my audience, and in order for me to have any semblance of life with you, I would be also asking you to act like some sort of guilty pleasure, some dirty little secret _ \- is that the proposal you wanted?” Aziraphale’s eyes were stinging now, but he didn’t dare stop. “What  _ possible _ way could I ever ask this of you without demeaning you? I couldn’t, Crowley! I couldn’t do that to you! Any one of the options available to us - short of abandoning my career - would have been rubbish for you! Any situation in which I demanded any single thing would have been asking you to give me more than I deserved!” He blinked the tears away and tried to disguise a sniffle as a frustrated huff. “I couldn’t ask you to join me in my misery! You deserved better than that! All I could do was try to not make it more difficult for you, and hope - against my own desires - that you would at least be free to find someone else to entertain yourself with! And that failed -  _ I _ failed, on more than one occasion! I was clingy, I was greedy. I wanted to spend time with you, and I took every chance. I took too many chances, on occasion,” he admitted weakly. “Sometimes I fear I might have made it too obvious. I know you’ve been pitying me this whole time, and I wish I could tell you to just stop, to leave me be, but I was too weak, and you were too kind--”

“I’m not  _ kind _ !” Crowley hissed, throwing up his arms and looking far more offended than he had a right to be. “You think I’m doing this out of  _ pity _ ? You think I’ve been hanging around you for the last six years, taking you to restaurants, to operas, because you’re some sort of charity case?!”

“I don’t know!” Aziraphale cried, clenching his hands. “I don’t know why you did it! Trust me I’d entertained the thought but I never knew the reason because--... because we never  _ talked _ about it! Because you never brought it up - and I didn’t want to bring it up - and I thought maybe, for once, I should try not to ruin the only nice thing I have!” 

“Azira--”

“But maybe-- maybe it’s time. Maybe I’ve let this go on too long. I’ve bitten off more than I can chew, finally. I’ve ruined this beyond repair, and I’ve gotten you into this mess, and I need to get you out. If this goes down in flames, you don’t have to go down with me.” 

For once, Crowley seemed to be at a loss for strange noises. He was shaking his head, but the flare of anger that had erupted a few seconds ago seemed to have sizzled out. “Hold on. Hold on - I get a say in this too,” he hissed stubbornly. “You can’t just decide for the both of us - I came here willingly--”

“And look at where that’s gotten us,” Aziraphale snapped. 

They stared at each other until he looked away again, collapsing back in on himself, slowly growing smaller, dimmer. “I’m sorry, Crowley. I mustn’t-- I shouldn’t do this to you...”

“You didn’t do anything to me,” Crowley pointed out. “We slept together, once--”

“Yes,” Aziraphale agreed. “That really was all it was, wasn’t it? I slept with you and then I ran off the next morning. Was quite rude of me, now that I think about it--”

“I’m not blaming you for that!” the man interrupted. “It was a bloody stupid situation, you had stuff to deal with, with your father, and that bastard Gabriel - I knew you needed time to get through all that shit--”

”But  _ you _ didn’t need that,” said Aziraphale evenly. “We had been online friends for a long time beforehand, just friendly colleagues - and that was fine. We should have just kept it at that - professional. It was a fluke that we ended up at the Garden in the first place, I don’t know how I ended up dragging you into my own rubbish life--” He saw Crowley looking to interject and put up his hand to stop him. “--and that was, perhaps, the first mistake. You didn’t want to even meet in person. The fact that you needed me there, it was a coincidence, and... honestly? I think you were right. We should have left it at that, should have parted ways after it was over... I should have never dragged you down with me into this black hole of family issues.”

Despite all this, Crowley was still vibrating impatiently, his eyebrows up and his teeth clenched into a scowl. “Aziraphale, I knew what I wanted,” he bit out. “Don’t treat me like some helpless victim! I had agency in this. I chose to do what I did. You told me, in your own way, exactly what you couldn’t give me. I knew. I knew why you hesitated. I chose to stick around anyway, didn’t I?”

Feeling his heart seize painfully, Aziraphale looked down, and wished the floor would swallow him up. “Yes,” he admitted, voice trembling. “But I believe you chose wrong.”

The wind outside buffeted the windows. In echo, the remainders of Aziraphale’s heart, just barely held together through sheer force of will, strained against the storm of regret wrecking through him. 

“This is our chance for a proper do-over, this... this period of no-contact,” Aziraphale began, unable to find it in him to look Crowley in the eye lest he relapse back into the greed that had gotten him into this mess, “You’ll go back to London and I’ll go on my trip and... We’ll spend some time apart. Not a few weeks, or a month, but... but a year. No emails, no social media. No collaborations. We can end this. The way it should have been ended six years ago. And you can have a fresh start.”

Crowley stared at him, his expression unreadable behind his glasses. He glitched on a half-step, stuttered back into place. Shook his head. 

“That’s it, then, is it?” he bit out. “That’s what you want?”

Aziraphale bit his lip. Nodded. 

Crowley’s mouth opened again, but at the last moment the air seemed to abandon him, all the energy aborted and thrown out in a pathetic shrug. “Fine. Well then.”

He swayed - for a moment looking like he was about to topple - and caught himself on a pivot at the last moment, spinning around and yanking open the bedroom door. 

“Have a nice tour,” he spat and threw himself through the exit wound. His footsteps echoed down the stairs and then disappeared around the corner.

Aziraphale stood in the middle of the room alone, watching his shadow grow long on the floor. 

In the window behind him, the fur tree tops were ablaze with an orange glow. 

A new dawn was breaking. 

* * *


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale thinks about cause and effect and everyone gets 100% more desperate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends and respected readers. From here on out, it gets a little heavy. Before we delve into this chapter I would like to politely remind you to re-read the tags for this story just in case you missed one. Right off the bat, we're starting with some rough stuff (inside a flashback) that might not be very calming, especially in the situation we're all living in. Specifics include mentions of homophobia, parental rejection, offscreen teen suicide, and false accusations of pedophilia. 
> 
> If you feel overwhelmed, please come back to this one at another time. 
> 
> (I will definitely resolve the tension, but we are not out of the storm quite yet! If you need to wait until it's fully posted so the cliffhangers don't get to ya, the story should be finished in the next chapter, and there will be an epilogue!)
> 
> I would like to extend the warmest thank you to [ charlottemadison ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/charlottemadison/pseuds/charlottemadison) who helped me actually mold this mess of words into something halfway presentable. If you haven't yet her work yet, you should absolutely put it on the list.

* * *

(Four Years Ago)

_ Dear Mr. Fell,  _

_ Truthfully, I wanted to call you Reverend, because even though you detail the fact that you are no longer working in the church in all your books, I still feel as though you are my only spiritual guide through what is turning out to be a very difficult time. Your stories have done so much for me - moved me to tears, moved me to find a new job... moved me in the literal sense, in fact. Last year, thanks to your novel “Leaving Eden,” I finally took the step to get away from my abusive husband and seek help from my extended family. They’ve been wonderful - and it is due to their warm welcome that my daughter and I have been able to recover from that life and step into a new one.  _

_ However, things are still not ideal and I’m beginning to grow worried again. The issue is my Eliza. Although I’m glad she is finally out of the house where so much violence was inflicted on her, and although I’m proud that she’s finally stretching her wings to fly, the direction she’s flying is not particularly healthy. You see, ever since she entered her new school she’s been gaining friends - which I’m glad for. But most of these friends are very anti-church. They’re atheists. And on top of that, a few of them are into some very questionable new-age practices which sound cult-like to me. They seem like they might be nice kids, but they’ve introduced my daughter to a slew of things I absolutely do not condone - including homosexuality.  _

_ Ever since she was little, my daughter was a lovely, shy, and very feminine girl. I assumed this, at least, would never change. Instead she’s begun dressing in masculine clothes and has even cut her hair short without consulting me! She watches shows on the computer that I feel are mocking God, and she has recently refused to go to church. What’s more, I have my suspicions that she’s trying to sneak out to go to some sort of secret meetings for this gay club she’s become a part of. I don’t think they’re serving alcohol there, but there’s a possibility of drugs being involved. _

_ I’ve tried talking to her but she won’t listen. Before, she was too afraid of her father to try anything like this, but now that we’re out of that environment, I feel she has no respect for my point of view. She’s told me she no longer believes in God, and that there’s nothing wrong with girls liking girls! Being sexually attracted to them, even! _

_ I’m at a loss as to what to do. I’ve prayed every day, tried to get her to pray with me - but she won’t hear it, and now she refuses to go to church with her aunt and me. She seems to be drifting further and further from the light, and I have a feeling that unless I do something soon, I will lose my child, and nothing will remain of my previous life.  _

_ I understand you’re a busy man, but I would love to hear any word of advice you might have to give a poor old bat like myself. I’m beginning to think I’m completely alone in all this. Life outside the walls of Eden is lonely, I know you’ve said that much. But I didn’t expect my daughter, for whom I’ve fought tooth and nail, to turn on me as a result. _

Aziraphale cleared his throat and glanced up. Over the top of the paper, he could see only half of Crowley’s face -- and that half was the part that housed his sunglasses. The man was slouched across his couch in a very accurate imitation of a python who’d recently escaped the zoo and decided to take refuge here in the hopes that his presence would go unnoticed among the coiling damask upholstery and rolling hills of knit blankets. 

“Wow,” said the python eventually, his voice a poisonous stew of sardonic and sarcastic. He lifted his wine glass (half empty) in a mocking toast while Aziraphale folded up the letter. “Cheers to that. History of domestic abuse AND traditional gender roles AND homophobia all rolled into one very neat burrito.”

Setting the letter aside, Aziraphale reached for his own drink and a bottle to top it up with. “Quite,” he remarked. 

“Did you answer her?” asked Crowley. 

“Of course.”

“And did you tell her?”

“Of course not.”

Crowley was silent for a moment, lying there flat on his back, one foot thrown over the spine of the sofa, and then turned his head sideways. “Why not?” he challenged. “Doesn’t this poor, distraught woman deserve to know that her beloved author - Dearest Reverend A.Z. Fell - the shepherd of poor lost souls like herself -- is a card-carrying gold-membership homosexual?”

Aziraphale almost opened his mouth to wind himself up for a longer retort, but then swallowed it back down again. “No,” he said simply. 

Crowley sat up, barely managing to keep his wine from escaping the glass and making itself at home on the carpet. “Why?” he demanded again.

“Because if she knew, she wouldn’t listen to me.”

Crowley was quiet, though he didn’t seem satisfied. “Her loss,” he finally bit out. 

“No, it’s not her loss,” corrected Aziraphale, much quicker this time. “It’s her daughter’s loss.”

There was a tense pause, during which something could have been said but wasn’t. Presumably Crowley was waiting for a clarification 

Dragging in an unsteady breath, Aziraphale went on: “Her child -- that’s who’s on the line here. That mother is out of danger -- and yes, I’m happy she managed to make it to a safe and steady place in her life. But now the issue becomes what I can do to prevent more damage being done to her daughter. She needs someone to tell her that homosexuality isn’t going to condemn her family member to a life in hell. She needs to hear it from someone she trusts -- someone she believes is on her side. And if I were to reveal that piece of information about myself, she would see me as the enemy, and I could jeopardize her openness to the rest of what I have to say. I could jeopardize her daughter’s life and well-being as well. I could squander the only chance she has for her mother to listen to reason.”

The room was eerily still. Finally, a clink of glass interrupted the silence, followed by the creaking of the settee as Crowley took a shockingly human-like position upon it. He leaned forward, elbows balanced on his knees.

“You don’t know what she would think,” he said. “Maybe it would help her to understand better.”

“Or maybe it would make everything worse,” snapped Aziraphale. He set down his wine and clasped his hands as if in prayer, though the only sound that escaped his mouth was a hissing sigh, exhausted and defeated. “Crowley, I  _ do _ know. I’ve done this before. I know how that story ends.”

Crowley waited, patient for once in his life. And wasn’t that lovely? And absolutely horrid at the same time. 

When they’d started out that afternoon -- with a drive down to Chichester to look at an antique bookstore, followed by a leisurely bite to eat on the way back and a night in with some Port -- he had not anticipated the conversation taking this turn. He was not emotionally prepared to lay himself bare like this. He hadn’t talked about it properly in ages. He thought he would be taking it to a therapist first, but instead it turned out he was going to just blurt it all out in front of his -- his...

What was Crowley to him at this point?

He pushed the thought aside. One life crisis at a time.

“I never told you how I left the church,” said Aziraphale. “I mean, I did, obviously. You know I was outed, and they didn’t like that very much, and my utter unrepentance didn’t help matters. That’s all old news to you, I’m sure. But.” He glanced up. “But.”

Crowley was staring at him. After a few seconds, he lifted his hand and pushed his glasses off of his face, reciprocating the eye contact Aziraphale so longed for. It was a relief -- Crowley’s eyes did not pity. They merely observed knowingly. He would not bother to pretend to be shocked by this story. There was comfort in that. Camaraderie. 

“I was working at a church in Oxford at the time,” he began. “I’d been there for about a year when it happened, although I was already familiar with the community from helping out with some translations for their historical archive. In general, I suppose the fact that they knew me outside of mass before they knew me in it made me more... accessible.” 

Aziraphale swallowed thickly and forced himself to continue. “One evening a mother came in. She was much like the one in the letter. She loved her family, had a lovely home, a husband... and a son. Noel, his name was.” 

“She came to me because she had a suspicion her son was gay. He was sixteen at the time and had begun to do things typical of his age -- sneaking out of the house at night, hiding his things, locking his bedroom door. Nothing she needed to worry about long-term, I assured her, unless she had good reason to think he was causing himself, or others, harm. But she was -- she was certain there was more to it.” 

Memories were coming back up again, but instead of dipping into them, he tried to tread water, keep his head above the surf. 

“She came in week after week to talk to me, and finally, at one point, she found proof - she’d broken his lock and snuck into his room, and she found, predictably enough, magazines with male models. She brought them in to show me. I don’t remember the details, to be honest. Something quite generic -- I doubt they were even pornographic in nature, but she was in hysterics. She was absolutely convinced Noel was going to hell. She demanded I talk to him, promised to drag him to mass, promised to take away all his electronics, promised to lock him up.” He took a deep breath. “I knew I needed to console her. I knew I had to just get her to calm down. So we sat down. Had some tea. And once she was listening to me again, I...” 

Aziraphale looked up, caught the intense gaze being cast at him.

“You came out to her,” Crowley guessed. 

“I was foolish,” said Aziraphale quietly, and tore his gaze away, tossing it to the floor instead. “I thought that I could help her. I said, look at me -- I’m a man of God. And yes, I like men, always have, but that doesn’t stop me from being a good person.” He forced a pained laugh. “She was so quiet. I thought, for a moment, that I’d actually got through to her. Done her some good. Done Noel some good.” 

There was a pain in his chest now, and he was terribly aware that there was a risk of tears, yet somehow he couldn’t stop anymore. 

“But the church grapevine is a twisted thing. It only took a day before everyone knew. They said just about everything they could. That I had been practicing Satanism, that I had been molesting choir boys... that I had sexually assaulted her son -- and that it was the reason he became gay. I realized my mistake quickly - but not quickly enough. I did what I could to quell the upheaval, I fought  _ so _ hard to undo the damage, but...” Aziraphale opened his mouth and tried to breathe in, breathe steady, but it was difficult now. He was drowning. “But a week later, Noel disappeared.”

The clock on the desk ticked softly. Outside there was a muffled sound of shattering glass and then distant laughter. A car horn honked once.

Crowley didn’t move. Didn’t make a sound.

“They found his shoes washed up on the shore of a river north of his house after three days. They never found the body.”

There was the soft thump of knees hitting the floor, but Aziraphale couldn’t bring himself to look up. Couldn’t do much, except keep talking.

“He was sixteen...” Aziraphale drew a ragged breath. By now his voice was shaking so hard it was difficult to get the words out. “He was just a  _ child! _ I had never even met him properly, he’d come to my services only a few times, and we’d never spoken! I just -- I just wanted to help. Instead I -- I killed --”

The rest of the sentence was muffled by a shoulder pressed to his mouth and two strong arms sweeping up around him, gathering the trembling pieces of him back together and holding them in a tight embrace. All at once, the cracks on the clay urn of his emotions gave way and he was sobbing quietly into Crowley’s jacket, fingers sinking into the fabric and yanking against it, trying to get closer, doing his best to disappear into the other’s chest. 

It was a long time before the waves of grief abated. Crowley said nothing, merely clasped Aziraphale to him like an anchor, kneeling there on the floor between his legs, his strong, wiry arms a net of support across his back. 

“Aziraphale,” he said quietly when the tears had run dry. “Aziraphale, listen to me. You know that wasn’t your fault.”

“I know,” choked out Aziraphale. “But it was. You understand how it was.”

“I understand the guilt,” Crowley admitted. “But for fuck’s sake, what were you supposed to do? What could you have done?”

“Kept my damned mouth shut, for a start.” He sniffled loudly and sagged deeper into the other’s hold. It was comfortable there, in the junction of his bony shoulder and his angular jaw resting on top of Aziraphale’s head. It felt, against all odds, safe. “I could have thought about the impact my actions would have.” 

“Your actions are for your sake as well as everyone else,” protested Crowley. “Listen to yourself! What about you? What about your life?”

Aziraphae groaned and began to push the man away, to disentangle himself from the closeness he’d so eagerly sunk into. It was more difficult than he thought. He wanted to remain there forever, but following the emotional outburst his more pragmatic side was coming back online and remembering his rules about self-control.

“I’m just saying,” Crowley said, sitting back on his heels and gazing up at him through those piercing, golden eyes. “You have yourself to think of, too. What happened... that wasn’t because you were... it wasn’t your...” He seemed to stutter to a stop and decided to try again. ”It’s in the past. And sure, you don’t have to bare your heart to this woman who wrote you a letter about her daughter, but you could at least allow yourself to live for your own sake, instead of doing everything through the lens of how it’ll affect other people, how it might all go wrong in the worst way.”

Aziraphale pressed his palms into his face, rubbing in his eye sockets and vehemently ignoring how close Crowley still was. “But it  _ could _ go wrong,” he insisted. “I have a large audience. And I have a duty to them now. Most of these people have never come in contact with anyone who thinks differently. They hear one side of things - and they take it at face value. I... I may be the only chance they have to listen to reason. Who else is going to tell them if not me? I can’t throw away my opportunity to help them. I have a real chance to change their mind - but all of that hinges on their trust in me, their belief that I’m someone worth listening to!”

“So you’re going to just keep going like this,” said Crowley. “You’re going to live your whole life sacrificing everything you have for the sake of others.”

Through a sting of pain, Aziraphale dragged his hands down from his eyes and breathed in deeply again, steadying himself against that golden gaze. His heart ached in his chest, reaching for the man who was merely a foot away. His palms felt empty.

But... 

But. 

He set his hands in his lap. Steeled his spine, brought himself back up, uncurled from his crevice of self-pity and tried to believe he was alright. “I can do a lot of people a lot of good,” he said. “Or I can cause them great pain. And I’ve already made this mistake once.”

“But --”

“Crowley.” His resolve cracked. It was barely a hairline split, but in that brief moment, his hand had already moved to Crowley’s own, gripping his fingers and squeezing them. “Please.”

Crowley’s eyes fell closed. His hand twitched, but in the end he corralled himself, yanked the sails up against the storm. His jaw clenched tight, quelled the protests, and gently gripped Aziraphale’s fingers instead.

“Alright,” he said. 

* * *

(Present Day)

It was for the best.

Aziraphale kept repeating it in his head. Kept repeating it, chewing up the words and spitting them back out until they lost all meaning, until he could taste nothing except the vowels and the consonants and his own regret, his own loss and grief for the thing that might have been -- the thing that almost was...

The thing which now wasn’t. 

He had finally done it. 

A cut. Not a clean one, but a jagged, serrated knife taken to something organic and freshly grown. A wound that had just begun to stitch itself together in the warmth of touch and the absence of longing -- and he had stuck his rudimentary pickaxe into it, his caveman’s tool, and had torn away at the fibers like a wild animal until he and Crowley were -- finally -- severed. 

It would have been easier to do it a week ago, before they had come to America, before this had all festered into a throbbing mess of an organism, before they had reached metastasis and begun to grow comfortable in their linked existence. It would have been easier before he knew how easy it would be. How easy it was -- to be together. To press their scars, still bleeding, flush against each other and watch the cells reach for one another and then heal -- into one full thing, instead of half a thing, throbbing, wanting, and regretting the billion-year-old decision made by a foolish single-celled organism that dared to consider other alternatives. 

It was for the best.

The morning waned. 

At ten, Thaddeus cornered him downstairs and announced how ‘great’ and ‘awesome’ this development was -- how happy he was to have Aziraphale ‘on the team’. He tried to discuss details like photography, and started to mention a bus, or a caravan or something of that nature, but Aziraphale could hardly keep up with the conversation. He worked up the nerve to excuse himself halfway through, claiming a headache -- a headache which promptly, if unhelpfully, became a reality. 

At one o’clock, there was an impromptu lunch with Harriet and Anathema. He remembered nothing of what he’d eaten.

At three, he finally made his way back to the bedroom. This was the hardest part - Crowley had made himself scarce all day, hiding who-knew-where, but when Aziraphale walked upstairs it was suspiciously clean and devoid of scattered socks. The bathroom now housed only one toothbrush. Four freshly-packed black trunks stood guard by the door. 

Looking at them made Aziraphale’s chest creak and groan like an old shipyard so instead he looked elsewhere.

The bed had not been made. Still there, in the form of the sheets, Aziraphale could almost make out the imprints of their forms. That’s where they’d been only twelve hours ago. That’s where their hands had locked. Where their legs had intertwined. Where he had nearly said it, in the heat of blinding pleasure, in the loss of all control, in the endless drive to be closer, to crack himself open and spill all of his secrets. 

He remembered Crowley cupping his face.  _ I know, _ the man had breathed.

_ You don’t _ , thought Aziraphale, feeling hollow.

The bed creaked when he lay down. He didn’t bother moving to his side - instead he stretched out in the place where Crowley usually slept, buried his nose in the pillow, and breathed in. 

He was going to have a long and very lonely rest of his life.

* * *

Gabriel got in around 6. He was sporting the look of someone who had spent his flight taking advantage of First Class perks to get an on-board haircut and a facelift. The suit sitting sharply on his shoulders was so fresh it may have well been fitted to him mere minutes ago, looked like it had not even existed long enough to know how to wrinkle yet. This entire package was wrapped in one completely dysfunctional but very stylish scarf. 

Aziraphale had never wanted to see a man less in his life. 

“So glad to finally meet you,” Gabriel said to Thaddeus, shaking his hand and flashing his teeth. He greeted Harriet in an equally cordial manner before finally pivoting and plastering on a sterile smile. “Long time no see, Aziraphale! Been laying into the Christmas turkey, have you? And you look like you just rolled out of bed!”

Aziraphale’s eyebrows deemed it necessary to jump as a minimal form of protest, but his mouth was, thankfully, still connected to the self-preservation part of his brain. “Was working,” he said dryly. In part because he did not have the energy for any other answer, and in part because it was at least half true. He  _ was _ working... through some things. Not that ‘lying face-down and hating himself’ had been a fruitful idea, as far as forms of therapy went.

“Fantastic!” Gabriel exclaimed with a bit more enthusiasm.

“Dinner will be in an hour,” Harriet announced. “But in the meantime, we could have a sit-down and a discussion? That tea-time business - Aziraphale’s really gotten me used to it. We even have some leftover cookies. Or is it... what do you Brits call them... biscuits?”

“I call them Unnecessary Calories!” Gabriel replied, guffawing at his own sub-par joke and giving a last cursory glance around the room. “And the other guests?”

“Everyone’s doin’ their own thing,” Thaddeus said, already turning to lead. “It’ll just be us tonight, I think.”

“All the better!” At this point, Gabriel deemed Aziraphale worthy of a second glance. “Much better to not get unnecessary elements involved.”

Aziraphale said nothing. 

“Are you coming?” Harriet prompted, but despite the worry in her tone, he had no will to keep pretending for politeness’ sake. 

“No, I think I’ll sit this one out.”

“Leave it to me,” Gabriel agreed, and his hand reached out to initiate what was supposed to look like a friendly pat on the shoulder. To Aziraphale, it felt much more like he was being grasped on the neck by a crab claw. “Editors should make the hard decisions. Authors -- you know, they’re an imaginative lot. Incredible at coming up with wild stories, but not much in the Pragmatics department.”

And then, before Aziraphale could even begin to imagine somehow rescuing his dignity, the ordeal was over and the crab had let go and swooped in towards Harriet instead, corralling her down the hall after her husband and already talking about hotels and meal plans.

At last untethered, Aziraphle side-stepped and retreated as if in a daze, heading in whatever direction felt most opposite to the one Gabriel had taken. With each footfall he felt like a weight had been strapped to his ankles. Gravity, it turned out, was not a constant. It was directly proportional to the amount of guilt one was feeling.

He headed deeper into the house, and deeper still -- planning, he supposed, to go into the first room he could find that housed books in it and bury himself there preliminarily. If he tried hard enough the grief could be numbed, he could escape into a story -- one with different problems that were less personal. Wuthering Heights or Jane Eyre, anything would do at this point, really. He’d even pick up a Dan Brown novel if push came to shove. 

Whether by divine intervention or just through a purely Aziraphale-specific survival instinct, the library door materialized branching off the main corridor. Even better, he knew it was to be kept unlocked indefinitely, following the incident involving Madame Tracy’s husband. Grasping the handle like a lifeline, he headed in and closed the door behind himself before turning around. 

The space was styled after the rest of the house -- wooden, heavy, and rustic. There were lamps nearby, but they were, for the moment, untouched. Dusk was just beginning to paint the sky in darker hues. Soft golden light streamed in through the windows, interrupted only by miniscule portions of unsettled dust. 

Like a filter feeding whale, Aziraphale stepped into it, inhaling and taking a slow, soothing turn around the floor. He waded past the curtains, tickling them with his fingertips to check if they were as coarse as they looked, and then floated towards the nearest shelf.

It was not a large library -- just a private study that had been converted, presumably for the sake of introverted guests. Several plush, leathery seats adorned with knitted white throws were scattered about the room between bookshelves housing neatly color-coded volumes with golden trims. The majority of them, he could tell from a glance, were decorative: encyclopedias, perhaps, or dictionaries, or historical tomes. Their main function was to provide aesthetic, not substance. 

Deciding that there was promise of hidden treasures elsewhere, he dove deeper. The foray proved relatively unfruitful at first - but in the corner of the library near an old, dark-varnished rocking chair, he found a small alcove of what appeared to be Harriet’s collection. Most of it was uninteresting to him -- books on Economics, books on Succeeding In Business, books on Modern Ways to Influence People. His own works were there as well, near eye-level, so he avoided that part of the shelf and instead leaned down, squinting at the older-looking covers. Here were several classics: _ A Tale of Two Cities... Emma... Doctor Zhivago...  _ and yes, of course, there was  _ Sense and Sensibility _ \-- neither of which he had, as evidenced by recent developments -- and right next to it -  _ Pride and Prejudice, _ which was a little closer to the mark.

Aziraphale ran his knuckles along the spines, letting out a soft sigh, and then hooked an idle finger into the last hardback and pulled it loose. Then, with it pressed tightly to his chest like a comfort item, he turned around and sank his weight into the rocking chair, allowing it to creak in protest at the abuse. 

Here, nestled among books and alone at last with his thoughts in a way he hadn’t been in a week, Aziraphale observed the inner corners of his mind which had recently begun to collect dust -- namely denial, repression, and regret. He had abandoned them for a short while, foolishly, and now he was paying the price. They were even less welcoming than before.

Then again, what use were they to him now, anyway? Denial had gotten him here. Regret and repression of his innermost thoughts were no longer safeguards, because there was nothing to protect him from. 

They’d ended it. It was done. He could be truthful without needing to worry about the repercussions. There was no one left to hurt - he was alone.

Aziraphale looked up, blinking back the tears and took a deep breath. 

“I love him,” he whispered. 

No answer came, but his ribs ached with each thundering heartbeat that followed the confession.

He bit his lip, hugged the book tighter and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to hold back the tears. “I love him more than anything,” he continued, no longer even trying to hold back the floodgates. “It’s not that I don’t want him, because I do. I want to wake up with him, and go to bed with him, and I -- I want to do unspeakable things to him, and with him, and I want -- I want... I  _ want _ .” He sniffed and reached up to wipe at his nose. “That’s  _ why _ I’m doing this, don’t you see? That’s why I have to do this. He’s too stubborn, he’s too optimistic to stay away! He tries, and he hopes, but that’s why I have to be the one to leave. I can’t give him what he needs, I can’t be anything but a deadweight. Don’t you see?  _ Don’t you see? _ ” 

Dragging in another breath he bent. He was longer speaking upwards - no longer speaking at all, but instead holding his face in his hands, bowed towards the floor and everything beneath it. 

All of it -- their meeting, their one-night stand -- it was all just an accident, the result of alcohol mixed with bad choices. Crowley didn’t need it to continue; he had other prospects, other opportunities. Better ones, more handsome ones, ones that did not come with baggage, ones that did not come with a closet attached, with a ball and chain clapped to their ankle. 

Crowley was free, open and proud, and that’s what he deserved to be. It was something Aziraphale could never match -- something he could only watch in wonder, siphoning off of the other in small doses like a desperate, starving creature. But eventually... eventually he knew he would drain him dry. There was no reciprocity to this. No matter how much he took, he could never give back as much as Crowley deserved. He could only make things worse.

After these last few days, his penchant to take miles when offered inches was readily apparent. Moderation was not an option . He had taken advantage of Crowley’s hospitality all these years; he consumed every crumb of contact, and warmth, and reciprocity, without bothering to taste-check whether they were real or perceived. Consequently, he’d led the man on by wanting too much, by playing coy, by allowing him to think there was something there, that things could lead to a fairytale ending, and tricked Crowley into believing they could have a future when it was nothing but a huge farce that Aziraphale had allowed to spiral out of control.

The book he’d been clutching slipped and fell into his lap, pages gently parting. With one hand, Aziraphale reached down to them and cut a valley through the divide, opening it further. His eyes, still sticky and waterlogged, skipped down the page.

_ “From the very beginning — from the first moment, I may almost say — of my acquaintance with you, your manners, impressing me with the fullest belief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain of the feelings of others, were such as to form the groundwork of disapprobation on which succeeding events have built so immovable a dislike; and I had not known you a month before I felt that you were the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry.” _

Ah, yes, of course. It  _ would _ be this part.

A deep, weary sigh fought its way out of him as if in a jailbreak. He didn’t even try to catch it on its way out. 

“I suppose I deserve that,” he muttered to himself and reached up to press the tears back into his eyes. For a while, he was silent, composing himself. Then, with a final dejected sniffle, the author shut the book and lifted it up to slot it back into its place, along with his feelings on the matter -- only to realize that the shelf was much deeper than he’d thought. 

In the space behind where Pride and Prejudice had been, there was another title, just barely visible in the low light. It was a softcover, with a title embossed in, curvy, crimson lettering:

_ Hades in Heaven 3: A Favor Returned,  _ by A.J. Crowley

“Oh...” said Aziraphale softly, frowning. Then he reached in deeper, moving aside  _ Sense and Sensibility _ to reveal -- just as he had expected -- another, similar softcover.  _ Margarita the Master: Long Winters Burn Hot _ . Then, behind it --  _ Dancing With the Devil: A Hellishly Hot Affair _ . “Oh, Harriet,” Aziraphale groaned softly. “That one’s  _ terrible _ .”

He was just about to push further in, to see just how deep this rabbit hole went, when he heard them.

Voices. 

Sounds of a conversation were weaving between the bookshelves, from just outside the door -- a conversation he was probably not meant to be privy to.

Especially given that the two voices in question belonged to Madame Tracy and Crowley. 

Shoving the books back into the shelf hurriedly, Aziraphale began to try to tune them out to try to avoid eavesdropping. There was good reason to suspect their conversation would involve him, and really, who could blame them? He had already made this infinitely difficult for Crowley. Going to his only point of contact here, seeking revenge and tattling on him -- that was all well deserved. Nothing Aziraphale was planning to stop, in any case, even if it cost him. He was beyond struggling against divine retribution. If anyone was going to damn his career, he would rather it be Crowley. That seemed rather poetic.

And yet... 

“... _ that _ good, love?” 

Tracy’s lullaby voice was deceivingly soft for how easily it cut through several inches of heavy wooden door. 

Aziraphale cursed to himself and stood up. It seemed that they were getting closer,, almost like they were just outside the library. He had nowhere to flee. 

“...Listen, me ‘n Mista Shadwell, we go through these rough patches all th’time. And you know what I think? I think you jus’ need to shag about it.”

There was a muffled reply, presumably Crowley protesting something. Aziraphale thought he could hear the words ‘what got us into this mess in the first place’. It was followed by more inaudible grumbling.

Madame Tracy’s voice returned, significantly easier to parse: “No, I know it’s s’posed to be a secret, dear. I said I wouldn’t tell no one, and I won’t. It’s between you ‘n him. I’m just trying to give advice, you know? I have experience with these things; I’ve been married more times than you think. And you -- listen, love, you have experience aplenty, but it’s only the good stuff, innit? The rough patches, they’re a whole ‘nother ballgame.”

Standing there with one hand on the bookshelf, Aziraphale felt himself frozen in time -- and frozen in disbelief and frozen in guilt. In general, he was frozen. His brain function had slowed, his blood was slush, and all his movements were sluggish. 

Crowley was still pretending they were married. For whom? For whose sake was this farce? Just to help him save face, retain some sort of undeserved dignity? Why did he --

The door to the library opened. 

For a second, the ancient, shrew-like ancestral brain cells which evolution hadn’t yet kicked to the curb almost convinced Aziraphale to crawl under the rocking chair or scale a bookshelf to escape discovery. Thankfully, the brain cells of the much less reactive lungfish had also remained for long enough to disable this response and replace it with the old ‘stand still and they may not see you’ instinct. 

The two survival strategies grappled with one another and so Aziraphale also grappled -- by grabbing the bookshelf with one hand and the rocking chair with the other and going absolutely still, as Madame Tracy (carrying two empty wine glasses) and Crowley (carrying two full wine bottles) entered stage left. 

There was a long but very necessary pause. 

“Oh, isn’t this a lovely surprise?” Madame Tracy crooned, while Aziraphale desperately yelled ‘ _ line? _ ’ in his head. 

Crowley said nothing. He was looking pointedly down at the two wine bottles in his fists. It was fairly certain that whatever thought process was going through his mind would result in both of them being shoved into whatever orifice was the most readily available in the next three seconds. 

“We were just about to have a bit of a drink,” the woman continued, seeing that her prompt had been dropped. “This place is nice, isn’t it?”

Aziraphale tried to force a smile and succeeded in opening his mouth, but not much more than that. “It... yes.”

Again, Crowley said nothing. The Madame seemed to be picking up on this, and was already beginning to set the wine glasses down on one of the nearby reading tables, as if anticipating something. “A lovely place for a chat, wouldn’t you say? But now that I’m actually thinking about it, I’m afraid I’ve left the ah... stove on. Upstairs. In my room. So I might just run back there and check on--”

“No need,” Aziraphale choked out, skimming the perimeter along the bookshelves that lined the walls and beginning to edge towards the exit. “I think I also left the stove on. So I’ll check on yours while I’m at it. You two can just--” he aimed to move past Tracy, only to stop abruptly when she stepped back towards the door to block it. One might assume such a gesture was futile, given their discrepancies in body mass, but a hunch told Aziraphale this woman was a force to be reckoned with.

“Madame,” he implored instead. 

“Mr. Fell,” she replied steadily.

“Yeah, I’m gonna go,” Crowley said, but he hadn’t even moved an inch when Tracy’s arm shot out to stop him. 

“Now hold on there, dearie. Don’t think I don’t know what’s going on here. You two won’t escape so easily. Avoiding the problem is all fun and games until it turns into a divorce.”

“Madam, you misunderstand,” began Aziraphale a second time, but once again, she was faster.

“In which case it’s up to you to help me understand. And I can’t do that while you’re both refusing to talk, can I? Now sit your lovely bottom down, dear, let’s have a drink. You can do that much for me, can’t you? I’ve heard so much about you, and it’s not every day you get to meet two celebrity authors in one trip.”

“I--” Aziraphale took a deep breath and finally braved another glance in Crowley’s direction, only to catch him in the process of skulking further into the room. Clearly the fight had gone out of him, and he’d resigned himself to this impromptu fake-marriage counseling.

Before anything else could be negotiated, Tracy sidled up to him, and without much effort managed to herd him gently back towards a chair in the corner. It wasn’t an uncomfortable chair, granted, and it was far away enough from Crowley to not make things (any more) awkward (than they already were), but strategically it was still a very sound trap. He was further chained by the wine glass he suddenly found himself holding, without quite recalling how or why it was being filled. 

“This is the good stuff,” Tracy said as she topped him off. “You drink this first, and then the cheap stuff you drink later, after you no longer care. That’s how I always do it.”

“Ah,” said Aziraphale, uncomprehending

“Do you two usually drink together?” she continued.

“Ah,” said Aziraphale again, this time with an intonation of realization.  _ This _ was her plan. 

“Me n’ the Mister, we like a glass with dinner, but he usually overindulges a bit, you know? But that’s no fun at our age - he just falls right asleep. You two are still young enough to enjoy it and I say you do it while you still can. Time is a bitch on the knees.”

Crowley screwed the top off of the second - presumably cheaper -- bottle. He took one swig, grimaced, and set it down on the table next to him before directing his line of sight off to the side, at some fascinating section of the floor. 

“So,” continued Tracy, unbothered by their lack of participation the slightest. “Speaking of time, I say we work backwards. Put things in perspective. Now, everyone argues with their loved one sometimes, that’s inevitable. But according to your dear husband here you were both quite happy for 6 years!”

“Well, now, that’s a bit of an oversimplification,” Aziraphale argued despite himself. 

“Yeah, he thinks he’s not allowed to feel happy, you have to trick him into it,” Crowley growled. 

As if this were a sign that they were finally getting somewhere, Tracy plopped herself down into another open chair and eagerly took up the other wine glass, pouring generously.

Feeling utterly ridiculous, Aziraphale opened his mouth to protest his presence again, only to find himself for some reason talking about something completely different; “Relationships don’t always work out the way they do in fairy tales. They’re complicated, messy things. It’s not as simple as getting together. The ever after isn’t always happy.” 

“Oh, tell me about it,” Tracy said, nodding in vehement agreement. “I had plenty of those. But you know -- you win some, you lose some. It’s not all bad.”

“There are just certain circumstances that... that make things difficult... some things can’t work out.” Aziraphale looked down. The glass, balanced in his lap, was shaking minutely. He lifted it to his lips and took a hearty gulp. It was terrible, but that somehow made it easier. “Some things never go away. Some things aren’t fixable.”

“Like bad knees,” inserted Tracy thoughtfully, nodding in sage understanding. “Or a collection of Witch-hunting implements from the early 1800s.”

Aziraphale frowned, but no explanation followed. 

“But,” the Madame continued. “Nobody’s perfect. That’s when compromise comes in. Talking through it, discussing the bad, seeing what you can tolerate - what you would be willing to put up with. Communication. Conversation.”

Across the room, Crowley snorted but said nothing.

“Ideally,” Aziraphale agreed, voice much softer now. “Yes, ideally, one should talk about such things. Lay down some ground rules. Find the limits. Ideally... before getting married.”

“Hm,” said Tracy, now looking between the two of them more rapidly. Possibly, she was realizing that whatever communication she was alluding to had not taken place - possibly ever. After another stretch of silence, she shifted in her seat and propped her chin up on her hand, leaning towards Aziraphale. “It’s true that some decisions are rushed and not very well thought through. But that can be a rather romantic way of doing things, wouldn’t you say? There’s comfort in the inherent chaos of life.” She glanced at Crowley meaningfully. “Isn’t that something you wrote?”

_ Or was it something I wrote?  _ Aziraphale thought to himself. It sounded familiar. A distant memory of several drafts, rewritten and torn to shreds over curry until they felt that they had it right -- striking the perfect balance. 

They were good at that -- balance. Negotiation. Pointing out each other’s typos, and errors, and stitching the fabric of the story back together into something new. 

But this... this wasn’t such a case. Aziraphale couldn’t envision a resolution for this climax. He couldn’t find any plot device that could tie this disaster back together. They were writing different stories. Crowley thought this was a romance. And Aziraphale -- Aziraphale knew it was a meandering slice-of-life with no real ending.

He was startled out of his reverie when Madame Tracy cut in again, ever the optimistic couples counselor. 

“Who proposed?” she asked.

Aziraphale’s chair creaked in protest as he shifted on it. “We didn’t really have a... a real proposal, as such.” Was it too early to take another sip of wine? He was too exhausted, too sad and too sober to lie in this state. “I suppose I did, in a way,” he finally allowed, though he still refused to look up at Crowley. “It wasn’t very romantic of me. We were just having what was supposed to be a quiet evening in after getting dinner. And I went and... blurted it out.” 

He felt the silence prickling at the edges of his finished sentence. After a few moments it grew unbearable and he glanced up.

Crowley was staring into his wine bottle with an unreadable look on his face.

“Sometimes that’s the best,” Tracy said soothingly. “Better than some grandiose public spectacle, that’s for sure. A private, more personal affair, nothing wrong with that.” Then, as if unable to leave the matter at that, eagerly recalibrated the interrogation. “How did you two meet, then? Was that more romantic?”

Aziraphale opened his mouth and closed his eyes, fishing for a reply in a hat. What seemed more convincing? Really, by this point they should have gone over it. They were both storytellers, it had been six days, why hadn’t he at least--

“Saw him in a bookstore,” said Crowley quietly. 

Aziraphale opened his eyes. 

The sunglasses were directed at him again. Large black circles, reflecting his own expression of --

What  _ was _ it he was feeling? He didn’t even know.

“I had read some of his work online,” Crowley continued. His voice was velvet, dragging over glass. It seemed like any moment something would catch and rip, but he kept going. Slowly. Stubbornly. “Didn’t think much of it at first. In fact, he insulted my writing. But then the more I talked to him the more I liked him. And when I finally looked at his stories, well... they grew on me like mold on bread. Within a week, I had read everything of his I could get my hands on.”

Tracy sighed wistfully, finally satisfied to be getting her fairytale. “Oh, isn’t that sweet?” she crooned.

“I wanted to meet him immediately after that, but I knew he was a private sort of guy, and so was I. So we just talked. Got to know each other. Had some phone calls. And then, one day... I was out and about in Soho, and I walked into an old bookstore. Thought to look around, do some research. And I saw him there, at the register.”

Aziraphale remained silent. He wanted to frown, to tilt his head to the side and mouth ‘where is this coming from?’ but some wiser thing inside him clamped down on his mouth, insisting _ ‘Don’t Interrupt’ _ . 

Crowley continued: “He was... the most ridiculous, the most frumpy little thing and... and I’d never been more attracted to anyone in my entire life. Recognized it was him right away. Recognized his voice. But of course he had no idea who I was. So.” He sniffed thoughtfully. “So I just kind of. Hung around. Like some sort of lovesick idiot. Thought maybe he’d talk to me, but he never paid me much mind -- always too busy with work. Never very interested in customers. It didn’t help, of course, that he had no idea what I looked like, since I was constantly in hats and scarves and far too shy to strike up a conversation.”

Tracy listened, riveted. “And?”

“And,” said Crowley. “And. Eventually. I thought... I had to find a way to meet him. But I couldn’t find the courage to just approach him. Didn’t know what to say. So I...” He inhaled slowly. “I made up a reason for us to meet. Created an event. Had a whole heist planned. Organized the half of it and then made it look like it was just a coincidence. Invited him. Over email. Begged him to meet me in person for ‘work reasons’.”

Aziraphale wasn’t breathing. 

“He almost didn’t say yes at first. Took forever to respond to my email. I was having heart attack after heart attack waiting for a rejection.” Crowley looked down at the wine in his hands. “But then he... agreed. And we went out. And we...”

Somewhere, a clock was ticking. It seemed impossibly loud to Aziraphale. He was looking at a blank spot on the wall opposite of the window. 

“We.” Crowley’s voice hitched a bit again, but he seemed to finally get through it. “We went out. Got some drinks. He rescued me from a few awkward situations, ever the gentleman. It was everything I’d ever wanted. All in all we had a nice time. At least, I think it was nice.”

“It was.” 

Aziraphale hadn’t meant to speak, it had just burst out of him. Like fire, burning his tongue, fighting to escape into the light of day. It felt like a confession and a damnation all at once. 

“It was one of the nicest nights in my entire life,” he said, dragging his eyes back to Crowley, ignoring how much they were stinging -- ignoring how the man’s torn expression made them sting even more. “Nice would be... rather... rather an understatement, I’m afraid.”

He gathered up what shattered composure he had and pieced it back together. Kindled the sudden flame of courage in his chest. Opened his mouth again. “You know, it’s funny. I had no idea he’d planned it all just to meet me. I thought I just got lucky. He sent me a photo of himself in the email, and I could have sworn I was having some kind of dream. Looked at him for hours, wondering how I was going to be able to handle meeting him in person. The loveliest man I’d ever seen -- and he wanted to spend time with me, of all people... I just thought it was... a coincidence.”

Crowley’s jaw twitched. “A coincidence?” he echoed. 

“Well, can you blame me?” Aziraphale murmured, dipping his eyes back down. “Someone like you with... someone like me. What would people say?”

“Since when have I ever given a shit about what people say?”

Aziraphale bit down on his lower lip and then slowly released it, trying to focus on the pain instead of the way his heart was hammering in his chest. The conversation was tilting again, its center of gravity careening towards a new point in time -- closer to the present day. “I know. My dear, I know you don’t. But... there were relevant complications. One of us had to be pragmatic about it.”

Crowley hissed out a breath of air through his nose, but his voice remained soft. “Pragmatic,” he repeated. “That’s one way to put it. Repressed might be another. Caring too much about what people said. When was the last time you did something selfish, angel? Something purely for yourself?”

Now it was Aziraphale’s turn to sigh. It whistled out of him, a soft vibrato of guilt.

_ Now or never.  _

“Two weeks ago,” he said . “When I asked you to come here with me.”

“For the book--” Crowley began, but he was cut off immediately. 

“Not for the book.” 

“Because Gabriel saw the photo and demanded you find a look-alike, so you--”

“Gabriel never saw the photo.”

Crowley opened his mouth and closed it, but nothing came out. 

Somewhere in another room, the clock clicked, and began to ring the hour. It got through the entirety of its morose song before being interrupted again.

“What?” Crowley finally choked out, seeming to have come to terms with the idea that his hearing was not broken.

Aziraphale forced himself to hold his gaze, to keep holding on in spite of the icy fear that was creeping into his heart. He had to make himself do it. Crowley deserved to know.

“I lied,” he admitted softly. 

Crowley reached up - snagged the arm of his glasses with one trembling finger, and tugged them off. He blinked, slowly, and then faster, the corners of his mouth twitching into a befuddled frown. 

Steeling himself, Aziraphale closed his eyes and dove in. “When Gabriel called me that night, when I was with you in the car - he told me that they wanted me to go to America. The deal was real, of course, it’s just that... the Dowlings didn’t know for sure that I was gay, they merely suspected... which was why the publishing company wanted to nip the rumor in the bud by having me show up with a woman instead. They had hired an actress to go with me.” 

Crowley blinked. “But you said--”

“I know what I said.” Aziraphale shivered. “I said it because... I was selfish. I could have taken the easy way out. Let Gabriel do what he’d planned. But I didn’t want to. I wanted to go with you. To spend time with you. Pretend -- live out my dream. Indulge.” He choked on a laugh that sounded suspiciously nasal. “Except asking you outright was out of the question. We’d never... we never discussed it. The only thing we had linking us together was that photo, so... I made a plan. Gave you a reason to go with me. I didn’t mean to push you; I think I was just trying my luck, entertaining a fantasy, wondering if you’d agree and you --” He laughed weakly, eyes stinging. “You  _ did _ . You agreed. So quickly that I didn’t even know how to stop you, how to undo the lie I’d inexplicably told you.”

Crowley was staring, and Aziraphale, finally bucking under the weight of it, dipped his head in shame.

“I called Gabriel the next day, spent hours convincing him, used every piece of evidence I had to persuade him to let me go with a man instead. The Dowlings had SOME evidence that I’d had a partner in the past, and I knew they may have seen the photo, so I used that as leverage. He was hesitant at first, but I kept pressing, kept saying I couldn’t have faked it if it was with a woman, that they might be suspicious. But the truth is... the truth is, I couldn’t have faked it with anyone at all. Not if it wasn’t you.”

Slowly, like he was defusing a bomb, Crowley set the bottle he had been holding down on the floor and then replaced his hands on his knees. “Were you...?” he asked. 

Aziraphale sniffed. “Was I what?”

“Faking it?”

He lifted his chin, pretended it wasn’t trembling, pretended he could see Crowley gazing at him through a mysterious liquid threatening to obstruct his vision. “Good lord, Anthony, do you really think I _ could _ \--? Do... you really think I  _ had _ to? It wasn’t for my book, it wasn’t for the audience. It was for  _ me _ . I wasn’t being pragmatic - I  _ wanted _ to spend more time with you!

The room was dead silent. Aziraphale sniffled once more, wiped his eyes, and looked up again just in time to see Crowley stand up without warning, his gangly limbs dangling in the air as if he had no idea of what to do with them.

“You... IDIOT!” he said.

Aziraphale lowered his face back into his hands.

“You could have just asked!”

“I couldn’t!” Aziraphale protested wetly, resurfacing again and glaring up through his tears. “All I do is ask things of you, Crowley! That’s all I ever did! I take and take and I give nothing back! It’s not fair!”

“What in the bloody hell are you talking about?”

It seemed high time for Aziraphale to stand up, so he did, if a bit unsteadily. “You asked me, when was the last time I did something selfish -- something ONLY for myself -- and yes, that last time was two weeks ago. It was also three weeks ago! Four weeks! A month! Every time we meet, every time you come back to visit my bookshop, every time you return my calls -- everything I ever do with you is utterly selfish! I take that time away from you without a second thought! You could be spending that time with someone else! Someone better, someone who’s not in the closet, someone without all this emotional baggage I carry around, someone you could take out to eat at lunch instead of sneaking out for late supper, someone you could take to see a matinee! Someone who won’t force you to live a life of constant stealth and fear and guilt, someone you could be seen in public with --”

“After all these years, is that  _ really  _ what you think I want?!” Crowley demanded, stepping closer. 

Aziraphale opened his mouth and -- paused.

“Have I  _ ever  _ said I wanted someone like that?”

Another bout of silence. Aziraphale was staring, wide-eyed and uncertain. Crowley was pulling out his phone, tapping something out and then reading from the screen: 

_ “November 17th - Az, found a lil nook on the corner of 8th. Perfect place, only space enough for like 6 people. Maximum no-disturb zone. Wanna hole up in there with you, maybe talk fanfic. Up 4 it tomorrow?” _

_ “October 22nd - Haven’t seen you in ages. U alive? Wanna see u and check for myself. Also bringing that one script. How about Thai?” _

_ “October 3rd - You know what I want? You. Me. Some cake. A quiet night in with some wine where no one fucking bothers me for five seconds. Gonna drop by the patisserie before heading over, text me ur order. Be there at 6.’  _ I could go back further if you’d like?”

Aziraphale was silent. 

After pausing for a beat, Crowley continued:“For someone who loves to overanalyze metaphors, you are absolutely incapable of reading the texts right on the screen in front of you.” He lowered his phone and flipped it around, holding it out as if the proof were necessary. It wasn’t. Aziraphale remembered every one of those texts. 

“That’s... I’m...” At a loss for words didn’t even begin to cut it. 

Crowley, on the other hand, didn’t appear to be lacking words at all. “I think I made myself pretty clear,” he continued with the same burning intensity that had powered him through the first half of his monologue. “I spend time with you because for me, that  _ is _ the ideal. I don’t care if you’re in the closet or out. I can live with that. I  _ have  _ been living with that. For six years. I had time to bail, and I didn’t. If I wanted a wild time cruising bars with some out-n-proud Other Guy that you seem to think exists just on my periphery, I wouldn’t be spending my prime middle-aged years quietly taking a break from literally all of that, exactly where I want to be, in your overstuffed back room, with you.” 

Aziraphale’s mind was racing. It was also standing still. It was in several places simultaneously, bouncing back and forth without any linking animation frames, and like in quantum physics, trying to look at any given thought only made understanding them more difficult.  _ Was this what the big bang felt like? _ he wondered. An impossible rearrangement of all the components that had been there from the beginning? A sudden click, a perfectly aligned miracle in the middle of meaningless chaos that brought about an entire universe?

The same way here, now, the impossible variable settled into place. The equations were adding up. The stars were aligning. His impossible ending was coming into view, breaking over the horizon and becoming a reality, dancing like a flame right in front of him, within arm’s reach. 

“But that means...” he began, as the tilt of this new universe threatened his careful balancing act of denial. “That means you--”

Some realization was fast approaching. In fact, it had already arrived, and he merely had to make it into words, speak it into existence. Crowley was still there, still waiting for him - like he had been waiting for the past 6 years. Annoyed, and crackling with energy, and an absolute grab-bag of nervous tics and creative swears -- but still there, still patiently holding the door open while Aziraphale deliberated like the world’s most uncertain cat. 

Except now there was no reason to deliberate, because he knew what was on the other side.

It hadn’t been a lost cause. It hadn’t been a dead end. 

Crowley had  _ wanted _ this. From the very beginning, all of the components for the mathematically improbable universe had been there all along.

Unfortunately, like everything else in physics, this particular spark of something-where-there-once-appeared-to-be-nothing was a pendulum on the machine powering the rest of the chaos And, according to Murphy’s Law, whatever  _ could _ go wrong, reasonably,  _ had _ to at some point, whether it be sooner than later. 

And so, at that precise moment, Gabriel stormed into the room.

* * *


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not so much an end as a new beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long - I wanted to get this right. You guys have been incredibly patient with me, and you really deserve the best. I hope this does the story justice. 
> 
> Thank you once again to the incredible, inspiring [charlottemadison](https://archiveofourown.org/users/charlottemadison/pseuds/charlottemadison) who made this 100% better.

* * *

“Aziraphale!” 

Aziraphale started as if he’d been struck by an unexpected peal of thunder, which was not too far from the truth, given who was storming in. He whirled to witness the library door banging open to admit his editor, who looked equal parts flustered and frustrated. 

A second later, Thaddeus arrived in a categorically similar whirlwind. 

“Ashtoreth!” he rumbled. 

Crowley jumped and, perhaps more out of habit than clarity, hurried to replace his glasses, though he only succeeded after stabbing himself in the eye several times.

Following the two men, Anathema and Harriet rushed in to observe warily from the sidelines. Not to be forgotten, Madame Tracy rose up from her chair, though she had not been entirely sure what had been going on for the past five minutes or so. She just wanted to feel included, and that meant being on her feet. 

“Is everything alright?” asked Aziraphale, obeying a reflexive need to defuse the tension in the room. He was also fighting to keep his tone light, as though he hadn’t just started baring his heart to the most important person in his life, only to be interrupted by a miniature crusade-like campaign led by Gabriel. “Did we run out of biscuits? Sorry -- cookies?” he inquired.

“Aziraphale,” Gabriel said severely, somewhat resembling a villain from a children’s television show, “We need to talk. About this...  _ setup _ we’ve got going on. The agreement you and Mr. Dowling have come to.”

Aziraphale glanced nervously at Thaddeus. “What about the agreement? He wants me to write a book. I’ll write him a book.”

“Not that,” Harriet said, stepping forward. “It’s about our side of the deal. The fully funded trip across the states.”

Finding that he was quickly losing track of the issue, Aziraphale looked back at her. “Oh, uh... Yes? What about it? I’m very grateful for the opportunity.”

Gabriel opened his mouth, but Thaddeus, clearly uncomfortable not being listened to for longer than thirty seconds, grabbed the spotlight. “And what about him?” he asked, jabbing a finger over Aziraphale’s left shoulder.

Aziraphale followed the gesture and found himself looking at Crowley, who was sporting a mirroring expression of befuddlement. “What about him?”

“He’s your husband,” Harriet said. “We assumed he would be coming with you.”

Aziraphale opened his mouth and closed it fruitlessly. A sideways glance revealed that Crowley was doing the exact same thing with equally futile results.

“He’s not coming with anyone,” Gabriel snapped, irritated. “Look, this has gotten out of hand.” He glared at Aziraphale. “You need to ‘fess up.”

Feeling like he was staring down the barrels of three guns at once, Aziraphale backed up a step and wondered how to get the room to stop spinning. “Oh,” he said. “Um.”

“‘Fess up  _ what _ ?” Thaddeus demanded. 

Gabriel threw Aziraphale another pointed look and, realizing that it was useless, decided to take matters into his own hands. “This has been... a big misunderstanding. They’re not  _ actually _ married.”

Harriet frowned. “Yes, they told us they haven’t had a ceremony yet, because there’s no legally binding --”

Gabriel’s eyes did a backflip worthy of the Olympics and he let out a groan. “Let me rephrase. They are not, in fact,  _ together _ .”

Aziraphale felt his heart drop into his stomach. He hoped his gastrointestinal acids would make quick work of it, because he was unable to handle its unceasing twangs of chronic pain.  _ Shut up! _ he wanted to yell. Except -- did he even have a right to complain? Wasn’t this what he’d been doing for the past several years -- denying their relationship? Why did it feel so insulting now, when his age-old internal monologue was parroted back to him out loud?

“Of course they are,” said Harriet. “What are you talking about?”

Gabriel’s gaze steeled. “Aziraphale was faking it. This has all been a huge mistake -- orchestrated by him, of course, though I admit, I have some fault in it as well. I enabled him to carry out this scheme, I allowed him to lie for his own self-indulgence, but I will not let it get any further than this. I will  _ not _ allow him to take advantage of our generous benefactors.”

Harriet threw a questioning glance at Aziraphale and Crowley and then pulled it back to Gabriel. Some sort of calculation seemed to be taking place in her mind, but she said nothing, evidently having decided to see how it would unravel.

Surprisingly, Thaddeus was the one to interrupt. It was surprising not because he interrupted, but due to the nature of his statement. 

“They aren’t faking,” he said.

All eyes turned to him. 

“Harriet and I thought so at first,” he admitted. “We thought maybe it was some sort of appeal for sympathy, playing the minority card or something. But after almost a week around those two? Nah. They ain’t faking nothing. I know what a fake marriage looks like. And that ain’t it.”

Realizing that he was outnumbered, Gabriel stifled another groan and threw up his hands before turning to Aziraphale. “You begged me,” he said, pointing an accusatory finger at him. “You told me you could handle this. Keep it professional. I wanted to work with you, Aziraphale, I really did. I allowed you to have your little trip and play house -- but this ends now. If they don’t believe me, they’ll have to believe you. You have nowhere to hide. Tell them the truth.” 

Time seemed to slow down as the heads all whirled around again, back to Aziraphale. He felt the weight of their scrutiny on his shoulders - the weight he’d been carrying for the past six days. But -- no, it wasn’t just that, was it? It was the weight of the past eleven years.

The truth - what  _ was _ the truth? 

The truth was, he was terrified. The truth was, he was uncertain. The truth was...

He was tired. 

He’d been denying their relationship for so long. He’d spent all these years stubbornly saying nothing, groping around in the dark, closing his eyes and pretending he didn’t know the meaning of the gestures and soft words and affections. He had forbidden any sources of light in that gloom, he’d stubbornly snuffed out each match Crowley had carefully lit, extinguished each candle he tried to burn. He had been holding them both back, too scared -- ironically -- not of the dark, but of what he might see once it dissipated. 

But... What good had it done them? He had holed himself up in the closet -- for whose sake?

One could pretend that it was armor -- a twisted phantom limb of Pascal’s Wager, insurance from a peril that he, himself, had fabricated. Yet after all these years, he hadn’t protected himself from anything. On the contrary, the collateral grief of keeping their relationship secret had arguably done him more damage. The fact that they had nothing concrete to tie them together, the fact that their connection always teetering by a thread -- balanced on the edge of a pair of scissors Aziraphale insisted on carrying -- had only caused him crippling anxiety over the (seemingly) imminent loss of the one and only person he cared about. 

And Crowley -- he had been  _ more _ hurt by it all, tolerating each rejection, always keeping himself at arm’s length for Aziraphale’s sake, always biting his tongue instead of speaking of his feelings freely.

As for any perceived positive effects he had on others -- the faceless readers and random strangers Aziraphale was so concerned about -- he had no proof they were benefiting from his repressed lifestyle either. Even if they did, was it really correlated to his own suffering, his imagined impact for some Greater Good? 

Or had his savior complex grown so concerned with the hypothetical that he had failed to treasure what he already had in the real world?

_ Oh bother _ , thought Aziraphale, while the realization walloped him over the head again and again, becoming clearer with every succeeding comparison. 

That’s what it was, wasn’t it?

Coping with fear of the promised damnation through blind faith... Creating some senseless ritual he thought would save him - and Crowley - from an imaginary threat. 

Perhaps it was time to face the facts.

If he were to be honest with himself, he already  _ knew _ what they were to each other. He had always known. Even without putting a name to it, he’d read the script of their relationship in the fold of blankets as Crowley dozed off on his couch after a late night. He had felt its soothing words, a secret code of things left unspoken, when Crowley comforted him over the phone after a particularly rough period of writer’s block. He had known what it meant when Crowley was always there, on the front stoop of the bookshop after every one of their petty squabbles, stubborn and unwilling to abandon Aziraphale in the sightless void alone.

A thought flickered in the back of his mind.

_ I want to see you. _

He turned his head -- turned to Crowley. Crowley, who was still by his side after all this time. Who looked back at him silently, solemnly, as if waiting for the final blow. He had no way to defend himself; he was here because Aziraphale had dragged him here. Hadn’t even told him the real reason for it, just like he never told him anything. 

Crowley, of all people, deserved to hear it. He had waited long enough.

“The truth,” he said softly - almost too softly. “The truth is...”

Crowley’s brows furrowed. He tilted his head to the side, the gentlest angle of questioning uncertainty.

_ We are _ , Aziraphale wanted to say, but that wasn’t quite right, was it? 

He had a choice - he could deny their past, and their future. Or he could finally admit his part in this -- and take responsibility for once.

_We were,_ he thought. He swallowed nervously, and, with a trembling, uncertain hand, reached out across the space still left between them.

_ We can be, again. _

_ If you’ll have me. _

Crowley’s hand twitched at his side. Even through the cover of the sunglasses, impenetrable as their darkness was, Aziraphale knew where the man was looking. He had learned the signs by which to read him - the doubtful scrunch of his forehead, the anxious jump of his Adam's apple. Even without his eyes in plain sight, Crowley’s body told a story, revealing a tell-tale display of desperately concealed vulnerabilities.

For a moment he was frozen, perhaps with indecision, perhaps with disbelief.

And then, he was reaching back.

Slowly, carefully, as if afraid he might shatter it, he slotted his fingers into Aziraphale’s anticipating hand. 

Curled their fingers together. 

Squeezed. 

Feeling his head grow light and fighting the urge to to portray even a portion of the elation he felt, Aziraphale spun back around.

“We are, in fact, together,” he announced. 

Gabriel’s eyebrows flew up so fast they may as well have been attached to a fishing line. “...What?” he demanded. “Aziraphale, no you’re not. I know you’re not.”

Backed by a sudden influx of courage -- or maybe it was adrenaline -- Aziraphale squared his shoulders. “You don’t know anything.”

“I do!” Gabriel barked impatiently. “You’re single. I offered to help find someone to fill the role, for the sake of normalcy, but you refused. Said it had to be a man.”

“Well, forgive me for wanting to spend the holiday with my actual partner instead of some unknown woman your firm planned to hire to make me look ‘normal’. If I had to pick a hill to die on, this would be it,” Aziraphale said, on the precipice of a sharp laugh. Something inside of him was burning up. Perhaps it was that last fuck he’d been hanging on to? 

He stole a sideways glance at Crowley again and found him staring, mouth parted in awe. Encouraged by the lack of protest, Aziraphale leveled his gaze back at their audience.

“He’s just some random guy you convinced to come with you on vacation!” Gabriel gritted out through his teeth. “He’s not your partner, he’s not your anything! And he’s not --”

“Coming with me on the tour?” Aziraphale asked haughtily, quirking an eyebrow. The uncharacteristic silence was enough to spur him onward. “Because that’s what you’re really afraid of, isn’t it? This isn’t about the Dowlings’ generosity. This is about your public image. You can’t stand the thought of me traveling around, free-range, in America, being open about my sexuality. You’ve been pretending to be all right with it to pass yourself off as progressive, but really, you haven’t changed a bit. You thought you could use me -- as Mister Dowling so precisely put it -- to play the minority card. But now that it’s inconvenient for you, you want to take it back. Well, I’m  _ not going back! _ ”

Gabriel fumed. “Aziraphale,” he said in a low voice. “I’m trying to protect you. Just because you want a free holiday with this man you’ve hired to play the part -- maybe you’ve taken a liking to him, that’s none of my business -- you do that on your own time; keep it out of your career!”

“I  _ have _ been keeping it out of my career!” Aziraphale retorted with surprising bite. “For  _ six years _ !”

“For six -- what are you talking about?!”

Aziraphale paused and, feeling a bit less brave, looked back at Crowley again. “That’s how long we’ve been together,” he said softly. 

Even with the glasses on, it was clear that behind the dark cover the lenses provided, Crowley’s eyes were as big as saucers. He was still gripping Aziraphale’s hand tightly but now he looked worried, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. As if he was waiting for the illusion to break, for his luck to run out, for the inevitable U-turn that would negate this progress.

And that may have been a concern before, but not anymore. Aziraphale had chosen his path, and he was no longer pushing, but surrendering to gravity. He just needed to make it clear -- to Gabriel and to everyone else -- but to Crowley first and foremost.

Feeling fragile and full of hope, Aziraphale took a deep breath.

“Six years,” he said, voice growing steadily stronger. He kept his eyes on the other, ignoring Gabriel and the rest now. “We’ve been together for six years. I really wish -- I ought to have gone about it better. Really, it was a mess. We should have been more forward about it -- no, _ I _ should have been more forward about it. Should have admitted it instead of trying to hide and deny it. You did most of the work, didn’t you, my dear? You were so patient with me. Even though I spent all that time digging in my heels, you matched my pace.” He looked down, a blush fighting its way to his cheeks. His thumb skimmed Crowley’s knuckles, and he felt the man choke out a raspy, disbelieving croak in reply. “I’m sorry. I wish we didn’t waste so much time hiding. I wish I could have done it better for your sake.” 

Crowley swallowed audibly. “S’fine,” he said, his voice heavily nasal even as he fought tooth and nail to retain a tone of detached sangfroid. 

“That’s absurd,” Gabriel protested. “I would know if you were dating someone for over half a decade! Do you really think you could keep an entire relationship from... anyone? Someone would have seen you by now! You’re famous!”

Aziraphale released Crowley from the mortifying ordeal of eye contact and turned back to Gabriel. “We’ve been very careful about it, and both of us are rather busy - but I assure you, we have been maintaining a steady average of... oh, what would you say, dear?” He frowned thoughtfully. “One date per month?”

Crowley shrugged in a valiant attempt at indifference and failed, because he was still blushing to the ears and clutching Aziraphale’s fingers too tightly, like he feared he’d float up to the ceiling if let go. “Uh, ye--  _ nghk _ . Sounds... sounds about right.”

“We do get dinner at least once a week,” Aziraphale said. “Sometimes more often.”

Gabriel sputtered.

“And we go to concerts. The theatre. Sometimes museums, if there’s a late-night exhibit.”

“Took you ice-skating once,” Crowley offered, finally finding his way back through his euphoria-addled brain to the speech control panel. 

“Oh, it was lovely,” Aziraphale chuckled. “Though you seemed to regret it.”

“Horrible invention, ice,” Crowley muttered, looking at Aziraphale -- and, catching his beaming smile, he went immediately out of commission again, giving up on speaking altogether. 

“You’re lying,” Gabriel said simply, stunned. “You couldn't have -- you have no proof!”

“I do,” Aziraphale said, impressing even himself. “We have messages and photos...and I have the ticket stubs.”

Crowley gaped at him. “You do?” 

“Oh, yes,” confirmed the other, and only then remembered to look properly chagrined. “Er, I sometimes stole yours under the guise of throwing them away. But I did keep them all. They’re in an album in the bookshop.”

Crowley was staring at him again, a smile warming up his face without his even realizing it. It was a lovely thing to behold, and Aziraphale felt the sudden and overwhelming urge to kiss him. 

He resisted. He’d had ample practice. 

Instead he pivoted back to Gabriel. “I’m tired of lying. To you, to the world... to myself. I’ve been beyond lucky that I have such a patient partner who has put up with my antics for this long. Frankly, I’ve been insufferable. But it’s gone on long enough; I’m done hiding for the sake of making you comfortable.” His eyes skimmed back to Harriet. “And the Dowlings deserve to know they’re not just being used as ladder rungs in your hunt for big names. Their support of our relationship has been incredibly important to me, and I’m not going to lie to them to help further your interests. Trying to scrape it off the contract now, like you’d scrape dirt off of a boot, would not be wise, in my... in my professional opinion.”

There was a profound, ringing silence. Gabriel was as still as a sculpture. Behind him, the Dowlings were exchanging glances. 

“I think we’re done here,” Harriet finally announced. “Aziraphale, if you and Ash still want to join us for dinner, we would love to have you.” She side-eyed the editor. “ _ Without _ getting the unnecessary elements involved.”

Aziraphale hesitated, glancing back at Crowley, who gave something that may have been the lovechild of a shrug and a nod. It seemed relatively positive, so he turned back to their hostess. “Yes, thank you. Perhaps... in a little bit.” 

“Take your time,” she replied.

“Gabriel, a word,” Thaddeus grunted. 

The ashen-faced editor, who had still not reacted to anything, came to life at last and turned on his heel, marching out after the Dowlings with a muted resolve. Madame Tracy and Anathema followed, filing out one by one until only Aziraphale and Crowley remained.

Outside, dusk was settling into the horizon, muffling out the last of the sunlight. With the room drenched in a soft blue tinge, the shadows seemed all the deeper. Everything was slowing down as quickly as it had started. The glass of wine sat abandoned on the book table. Behind them, a clock was ticking.

_ It’s over, _ thought Aziraphale.

Except it wasn’t.

Perhaps it never would be. But wasn’t that just life? Everything was cyclical. The good, the bad... it would always come and go, and come and go again. The only constants were things he’d have to hold on to -- to work hard at keeping them close. Until now he’d been lucky; Crowley had hung on for the both of them. And now... now he was damned if he ever planned to let go.

But first he needed to actually take that first step and make contact.

He took a deep breath, closed his eyes and hoped it would give him the necessary courage to turn around and face the other, but before he could pivot, a forehead landed on the back of his shoulder. Crowley sagged against him, tucked his nose somewhere into the collar of his waistcoat, and let out a deep, very uneven breath. 

“Aziraphale,” he said quietly.

Aziraphale swallowed back his nervousness and cleared his throat to start fresh. “My dear.” He waited for a beat. When Crowley did not follow up, he continued: “I’d very much like to see your face right now. I need to tell you something.”

“Don’t say that,” Crowley groaned. “You have no idea how terrifying this is.”

“I promise it won’t be.”

Crowley made a noise that was either a very tired lawnmower or a door creaking. “You know how dogs always chase cars? I always wondered what they planned to do if they ever caught up with one.”

“You do have a way with words,” said Aziraphale. He shifted his shoulders and this time succeeded in turning around. Crowley straightened back up again, though he still seemed to be severely hindered by gravity tugging at him in asymmetrical patterns. It was almost impossible for Aziraphale to resist reaching over to prop the man up with his own body.

Almost. 

Reaching up, Aziraphale touched the edges of the dark glasses. “May I?” he asked.

“Hngk,” Crowley replied, which for him was affirmative. Aziraphale slid them off, folding them and tucking them into the V of Crowley’s dark red waistcoat, and then, tentatively, he lifted his eyes again. 

“My dear, I owe you an apology.”

Crowley blinked hard -- looking in one direction, then another, eyes never landing on the man in front of him. “Nnnno, don’t start it like that. If you’re planning to take it back --”

“I’m not,” Aziraphale hurried to say. “I’m not going to take anything back. If anything, I should have done it sooner. Maybe six years sooner.”

Crowley sniffled. “S’fine,” he mumbled. “You had... stuff.”

“We both had ‘stuff’,” Aziraphale said. “That doesn’t exactly excuse how difficult I’ve made this for you. Or make it better.”

“Doesn’t have to be better,” Crowley protested a bit too quickly. “I told you, I -- I’m fine with how it is. How it was. If that’s what you need.”

“I think we’ve both had enough of whatever it is I thought I needed,” Aziraphale said. “I highly doubt it was  _ my _ needs I was fulfilling. My audience’s needs, maybe, and now that I think about it, Gabriel’s needs. And I have no idea why I ever prioritized him over you.” 

He reached out again -- and this time held his palm out, an open invitation. “I want to prioritize you now. Like I should have been doing for all these years.”

Crowley sniffled again, quieter this time. Just like before, he reached out, but with both hands this time. His fingers folded around Aziraphale’s hands like the closing petals of a flower, as if there was still something to be afraid of. “Are you sure this is what you want?” Crowley asked. “You said -- you said all those things in front of Harriet and... in front of that girl, and, and Tracy. In front of  _ him.  _ Listen, I won’t lie and say I’m not thrilled, but for the love of Someone, the last thing I want to do is pressure you if this isn’t something you’re certain of--”

“I am,” Aziraphale interjected. “I wouldn’t have said all that if I wasn’t. Now stop worrying about me -- you’ve been doing it for the past six years. It’s my turn to take care of you for once. Crowley, what do  _ you _ want?”

Crowley’s gaze flickered back up from the edge of Aziraphale’s bowtie. His eyes were slightly red, though he was still holding himself together somewhat, if only for appearances’ sake. His throat moved as he swallowed. “Just... just this,” he said very quietly. It felt like he was whispering a confession into the space between them. “This is enough. I mean, maybe... with less unresolved sexual tension.”

A small chuckle slipped through Aziraphale’s intent expression. “We can resolve it,” he promised softly. 

Crowley nodded diplomatically, tried to hide the tremor in his tone. “Much appreciated. I mean, not... not that we haven’t been already. These past few days have been uh,  _ very _ helpful.”

“We  _ have _ been making headway,” agreed Aziraphale. “Though we’ve also missed quite a few opportunities. Six whole years. A bit of a waste.”

“Not a total waste,” Crowley argued. “Restaurants and museums are alright, don’t get me wrong. But if you’re taking requests...”

“I am. Any others?” 

Crowley hesitated, clearly unsure what to do with the opportunity to speak freely. “Er... would be nice to come over to the bookshop...more than...more than once a week,” he finally stammered.

Aziraphale felt his heart skip in echo, but then his instinctive anxiety was replaced with something much warmer. “I would like that,” he confessed softly. It was almost strange to say it now, to realize how many barriers he’d put up. They had both held back so much, had starved themselves of the very thing that could have saved them. “You are always --  _ were _ always welcome, my dear. Every... every day if you’d like.”

For a moment, Crowley’s hands tightened on his, and then released, as if blooming. He tangled his fingers with Aziraphale’s, slowly testing the boundaries. “Every day?” he confirmed, gaze still directed uncertainly downwards. “Be careful what you wish for. That’s--”

“It’s exactly what I want,” Aziraphale promised. He looked down at the cat’s-cradle-like knot Crowley was attempting and gently placed his second hand over it, stilling them both. 

Crowley dragged in another shaking breath.

“‘Course,” he said suddenly, “that isn’t taking your tour into account.”

Aziraphale blinked up at him a few times before the realization hit him -- the tour! The one year tour that he had practically agreed to. The one he’d been planning to use as a way to punish himself after he and Crowley had ended it, to distance himself from the pain, and to convince himself that he was somehow helping.  _ That _ tour. For a few minutes, he’d been living in a world in which it was a non-issue, in which he and Crowley could simply return to their old life in the back room, with their wine and their drafts and maybe other, new ways to pass the time. Now he realized this was not, in fact, going to be the case.

“Fuck,” he grumbled.

This single word, rare as it was in Aziraphale’s vocabulary (at least outside of his literary ventures) appeared to brighten Crowley’s mood a bit. “Forget about that, did you?”

“I may have, for a moment,” Aziraphale admitted, trying to ignore the man’s sardonic grin. “But now I’ve gotten you into this mess, and we -- I -- That is to say... ” He fumbled for the words, but they were evading him. There was no graceful way to recover from this. “...I didn’t  _ actually _ want to go. Not... not alone.”

There was a stretch of silence, during which Aziraphale’s instincts tried several times to convince himself that he had made a terrible mistake -- again -- but eventually the need to know for sure won out. He looked up into Crowley’s eyes, searching for a rejection, or frustration, or perhaps (rightfully) indignation -- but instead the other seemed to simply be shocked. 

“If you don’t want to, I understand of course,” Aziraphale hurried to say. “This all happened rather fast, and I didn’t plan for it to...I didn’t plan.” He winced apologetically. “I wouldn’t blame you if you laughed at me for even suggesting it; it’s a huge commitment, in terms of time and energy, and I’ve already dragged you a thousand miles from home on one selfish whim. The last thing I want to do is not be fully upfront about something of an even bigger caliber. I just thought, I thought, if you, by chance, um, wanted to...” He bit his lip, feeling more and more foolish by the second. He wasn’t very accustomed to speaking his desires, and was quickly realizing it would take practice to do so without sounding like a fool. Never in his life had he been quite so forward when it came to him and Crowley -- at least not out loud. But each succeeding word felt less like glass in his mouth and finally, his tongue seemed to turn as he willed it. “What I’m saying is... I-if you, by chance, wanted to go with me on that tour... it would make me very happy.” 

Crowley still hadn’t said anything, but the gears grinding in his head were practically visible behind his eyes. He’d never been on the receiving end of such requests -- not unless they were caked in labyrinthine purple prose and metaphors and disguised as secondary characters in a collaborative fiction. And, as it turned out, there was another hurdle to clear in terms of parsing this proposition Aziraphale had uttered. 

“With _ me _ ?” Crowley asked, forehead wrinkling in confusion. “You actually want to go out and about on tour? Where people can  _ see _ us?  _ Together? _ ”

Aziraphale tried to retrace his steps, to figure out what, specifically, he’d not made clear. “Well... yes? That would be the idea. I understand of course I’ve not given you much warning, and I would not, under any circumstance, want to pressure you --”

“Right, right,” said Crowley, who still appeared to be preoccupied with wrapping his brain around the concept. “You might need to give me a second to think about it...” He furrowed his brow, and then hummed theatrically one last time before clicking his tongue against his teeth. “Okay, second’s up. I’ve thought about it.”

Aziraphale blinked. 

“Yeah. I’ll go.” Crowley had said it as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. He made a show of shrugging casually, but his hands were flexing closed again, betraying his undercurrent of anxiety. “Sounds like fun.”

“Are you certain?” Aziraphale prodded. “But what about your own work? And your plants? They’ll not survive that long without you.”

“I could hire a plant sitter. Anyway, a whole year on the road to the states, where Beez can’t bother me in person? Sounds ideal. Not to mention a whole year bugging you -- or  _ buggering _ you -- or  _ you _ buggering  _ me _ , I’m not picky --”

Aziraphale tsked, but he couldn’t help smiling. “My dear, I’m trying to be serious. You don’t have to agree just for my sake. I know you have other responsibilities.”

“Nothing that can’t be done in a tour bus. In fact, now that I think about it, since we’ll be on the road anyway, I may as well use the time writing. I could help you if you get stuck. Less work, more tourism.” Crowley’s hands continued their restless grasping, having graduated to a rhythmic massaging of Aziraphale’s thumb. They seemed to be the only way he could express some unsaid thing, an uncertainty he was still fighting alone. 

Aziraphale frowned and looked up. “I can tell something’s bothering you,” he said. 

Crowley hesitated. His body was caught in a freeze frame, but his eyes remained a flipbook of emotions, holding at a steady tremor to Aziraphale’s own worried gaze. 

“You can tell me,” Aziraphale said. “I know we haven’t exactly had a good track record with being honest with each other. We still have a long ways to go, but I’m--I want to do it right. If you don’t want to go, you can tell me, I promise I wouldn’t ever--”

“It’s not that,” Crowley hurried to say. He grimaced and dropped his head. “It’s not... I  _ want _ to go. ‘Course I do. I suggested it, didn’t I? Don’t go taking credit, I said Gabriel can get fucked, we can take the money, go rogue in America. Just you ‘n me. Ideal, really. No complaints there. I just... I’m not sure...” His voice faltered. “I’m not sure if this is...real.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, his voice very small. “Oh, my dear...”

“M’not saying you’re lying,” Crowley blabbered. “I’m not...That’s not the problem. It’s just kinda...sudden, you know? Like I said, dog catches up to a car. What’s next? It -- my brain can’t really wrap around...” 

Aziraphale felt his confidence faltering. Of course Crowley didn’t believe it. It made sense. After all these years of secret messages and hidden intentions and avoidance -- what other frame of reference could he possibly have? Their world was one of deliberate misunderstandings.

Words - what were they? Sounds, exhaled air shaped by tongue and teeth and lips yes, but also lines on paper, all arranged in a specific, unique shape. Words could be anything -- fingerspelled, drawn with ink, carved into stone, whispered, shouted... Fictions, intentions, revelations - all these things were made of words. Words, in turn, made them. The process was circular -- words beget meaning, and were, in turn, made from the meaning that was pressed into them. 

They both dealt in words. Thousands, hundreds of thousands of words -- written, typed, spoken... and unspoken. They had traded them, promised they meant something -- pretended they meant nothing. They had spoken too much and not at all. So in the end, what had words done for them? What good could words do in this situation, with the baggage they carried?

But there was another language they both knew, Aziraphae realized.

A silent language. 

Biting his lip to keep the words in, he reached up with his thumb, tracing the stubbly line of Crowley’s jaw. Traversed up to the man’s bottom lip, outlining it with the pad of his finger. Brushed the snake tattoo on the man’s temple lovingly and cupped his face. The simple gesture made them both shiver in tandem as if it was the first time all over again. 

It certainly felt like it. Everything felt new. He threaded his fingers into Crowley’s hair, deeper, deeper still until he could hear his shuddering inhale, and until he could feel him pulling in, responding to the wordless question. Aziraphale, in turn, leaned closer, met him halfway.

Their lips met. Then parted, and then pressed closer again.

And finally, they were talking.

Some sounds were involved -- the way Crowley broke off a whine into his mouth, the way Aziraphae hummed his assent. But the rest was fluent action: their chests coming flush together in a clause, Crowley’s arms winding around him to form a sentence. The heat, the desperate press and pull to edge closer into each other’s space, was an entire paragraph. 

Aziraphale read the plea in the way Crowley’s fingers flexed into the fabric on the back of his waistcoat and answered the call with a line of his own, sliding his arms under the man’s shoulder blades, holding him closer as they finally ended the kiss.

Without the assistive lock of their lips holding them together, Crowley’s knees seemed to buckle and he crumpled a little into the embrace. 

Aziraphale seemed to hardly notice the extra weight -- he sighed in content and leaned in, touching their foreheads together. 

“I know my track record with honesty isn’t the most encouraging... when it comes to words. But I promise you, I have never lied to you with my actions. None of this has been fake. Every look, every touch -- none of it was an accident. Every brush of our feet under the table. Every time I took a leaf out of your hair after walking around the park at night. Every time I pretended to be a little more drunk than I really was in order to lean into you a little harder than I knew I ought to.”

Something resembling a laugh bubbled in Crowley’s throat but he was also clearly struggling with a whole array of other emotions, unable to decide between them. “I knew it.” 

“I knew you knew,” Aziraphale said, chuckling to himself softly. “But I could never admit it out loud back then.”

“And I didn’t mention it.” Crowley sighed. His shoulders sagged some, but this time around it was not a surrender. It was relief; tension leaking out of him as if Aziraphale’s arms around his waist were squeezing him dry of every negative feeling he had. Which was, perhaps, exactly what was happening. “Was bloody stupid of me. Maybe I should have.”

“But you didn’t know how it might end. With how stubborn I was, everything was a risk. I pushed you away for so long, it’s a wonder you stuck around at all.”

“Glad I did though. T’was worth it.”

Warmth swelled in Aziraphale’s chest again. Comfort, a helium-like lightness, tingling in the back of his head. It was all things he was used to - things he had often experienced when Crowley was around but had not allowed himself to feel without having to stop himself short and shove them back down again. It would take some getting used to -- the bliss was dizzying. “So,” he said, if only because he wasn’t sure what to do with the sudden influx of giddy energy. “You will come, then? On the trip?” 

Crowley grinned, and like a break in the clouds, his typical devilish self almost started to shine through again. “S’pose I could do, seeing as you’ve already announced it to the whole blessed world. We can visit all those fun places Thaddeus wants you to write about, spend the nights getting wasted on American alcohol, map the best restaurants... celebrate our first official anniversary if we last that long. It’ll be almost like a vacation.”

“A vacation. Quite,” Aziraphale murmured, although in his head there was another word that was circling the newly formed, idyllic dream of reclining on some wicker chairs at a Californian winery with Crowley. The image of the sun catching on those red curls, outlining that jaw and inviting Aziraphale to lean in and kiss the trace remains of Merlot off of the other’s lips... the consequent retreat to the seaside for an evening walk, hand in hand... It was all rather romantic.

Their first official ‘anniversary’. It was true enough - they _ would _ be abroad for a year. It was almost as if they would be on a...well...a  _ honeymoon _ . 

Of course, it was too soon for that yet, he reminded himself hurriedly. They had been through enough in the past 6 days, there was time left to talk about other life-changing decisions. And if he were already making mental lists of all the states they could legally get married in, well, Crowley did not need that information dumped on him right then and there.

“Well,” he began, forcibly stopping that train of thought, which had recently upgraded to a high speed bullet train (with the next stop designated at the end of the aisle). “As pleased as I am with your swift agreement on the matter, just to make sure you really are alright with the idea of putting up with me for a whole year, might I suggest starting with something smaller. Say - another evening with the Dowlings?”

The reminder served its intended purpose. Crowley groaned but began to peel himself off of Aziraphale limb by limb. “No getting out of that one, I suppose.”

“We don’t have to stay long, but after the scene we caused, I did want to at least apologize.” Aziraphale’s own arms needed a few seconds of convincing to unlock from around Crowley’s waist. He stepped back towards the door, trying to be proactive before Crowley’s relaxed, slightly dishevelled look lured him in a direction that would indubitably end in snogging against the bookshelf. 

But no, they had time for that later. All the time in the world, in fact; the rest of their lives. They could snog tonight, and the next night, and all over America. He could undress Crowley with his hands instead of only his eyes. He could take him into the back room of the bookshop and throw him over the sofa and finally watch, unabashedly, as that unrelentlessly impossible squiggle of a man twisted himself into all sorts of lewd poses and he could actually  _ do _ something about it instead of simply watching silently from behind a book and biting the inside of his cheek so hard it bled.

The faster they could get to the dinner and get it over with, the faster he could get started on his actual to-do list. He grabbed the library door handle with a little more force than necessary, invigorated by the promise of a thousand temptations he could pay the other back for, play an active part in; he twisted it hurriedly, pushing into the hallway -- and stopped cold in his tracks when he saw who was waiting for them.

Crowley bumped into him from behind and nearly tripped, catching himself on Aziraphale’s elbow at the last second. “Oi, what’s the matt -- oh, not  _ this _ again.”

Standing in the middle of the dim hallway, haloed by the light from the main foyer, was Gabriel. Even when Aziraphale straightened up and faced him head on, he did not respond. He didn’t appear to be planning on moving at all -- or indeed unblocking their only path out of the library.

However, for the first time, Aziraphale couldn’t find it in himself to care about the standard scare tactics. He felt none of the dread he’d been plagued with for so long. Something burned in him -- something bigger and brighter than the anxiety that had fueled him for the past six years.

“Ah. Long time, no see.” Even his own voice sounded shockingly casual to Aziraphale. “Did you need something?”

“You really didn’t think this through,” Gabriel said. 

“Oh shuddup,” Crowley groaned, coming to life beside Aziraphale, leaning up against him and slinging one arm across his shoulders protectively.

“No, no, dear, let him speak,” said Aziraphale. “I want to hear what he has to say. I want to hear what it is, exactly, that I haven’t thought through.”

“Your career.” Gabriel’s voice was low, chilled. “Your image. Your audience. You’ve betrayed them all. They’ll never accept you. You’ve ruined things for yourself, irreversibly. Our agreement --”

“Our agreement hinged upon me being too terrified to topple your perfect little house of cards. And on me being obedient, and never questioning why you belittled so much. But I realize now that the reason you kept me under your heel is that I’m actually the foundation of it all, isn’t that right? If I move, the whole thing sways and threatens to come down.”

Gabriel’s face twitched. 

“You know, back when Father died, I never questioned why you got me published so fast. Why you worked so hard to mold me into the perfect little Catholic-friendly celebrity author, when we hadn’t spoken for years. But I understand better now -- it was the money.” 

Crowley’s head tilted towards Gabriel, honing in on him like a hawk. “Oh?” 

Aziraphale smiled knowingly. “Your control over the finances was slipping. You needed a new business model, and I was the perfect tool to turn things around. To build your campaign around. And I became your source of income.” 

Gabriel cracked open his mouth to retort, but for once, Aziraphale didn’t give him the option -- his voice was growing steadily louder.

“You kept telling me that if I step one toe out of line this could all come crashing down. But you never said for  _ whom.” _ Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. “It wasn’t for me. I would always have an audience; I would always have another publisher available to pick me up. No, the danger was for you, wasn’t it? You might lose your biggest asset.”

Cracks were clearly showing in the editor’s careful facade. He was clenching his fists, gritting his teeth, and his suit had slowly but surely begun to crease at the shoulders. “I see you haven’t learned from your mistakes,” he snarled. “You’re not as invincible as you’re making yourself out to be. I made you what you are today, Aziraphale. If I need to ruin you, I could. All I’d need to do is tell your potential readership what sort of thing you prioritize, when push comes to shove. How you’ve abandoned them. Chosen this lifestyle over your community.”

“It isn’t his community,” Crowley hissed. “It’s a prison. Even if some homophobic shithead fundamentalists stop reading his books, he’d still have thousands who wouldn’t care. People like Harriet. It might even get him MORE readers. Times are changing.”

“You know nothing about publishing, so I suggest you shut up,” Gabriel scoffed, now visibly vibrating with rage. “I could spin a scandal that would put you out of business for the rest of your life!”

A thought occurred to Aziraphale just then. Simple, yet obvious. 

“So could we.”

He said it almost without planning to -- it had just slipped out. But Crowley immediately turned his head to look at him and, catching sight of Aziraphale’s mischievous smile, parted his lips in shock. The realization was instantaneous, unanimous. Without any words at all, Crowley already knew where this was going. 

But that was how it had always been. They were a team, after all.

Gabriel had yet to see the train tracks he’d tied himself to. “You and your wily little boyfriend wouldn’t be a problem for the estate, Aziraphale. You were cast out once already. And given your secrecy, no one could ever hold me accountable for not knowing about it. If you come out? We drop you, and wash our hands of it.” 

“You misunderstand,” Crowley cut in. He was grinning with the glee of someone who’d just walked in on a surprise party he had, himself, orchestrated. In fact, Aziraphale thought to himself, taking the comparison further, he would assign Gabriel the role of the piñata in this scenario. “The scandal isn’t in the fact that he was dating a man,” said Crowley. “It was about who that man was. About what sort of relationship they had... and what they wrote together.”

Aziraphale smiled quietly to himself. This was Crowley at his most dastardly; he was practically glowing with smug, villainous satisfaction, and frankly he had never looked sexier.

“I don’t care who you are!” Gabriel spat. “I don’t care what you wrote -- you’re no one the estate would care about!”

“Really?” Crowley tugged his bottom lip into a pout while Aziraphale fought the urge to lean in and bite it for him. “You seemed to care quite a lot back at the airport. I was under the impression... oh, but forgive me. We haven’t been properly introduced yet, have we?” With a flourish, he reached into his back pocket for a wallet, grabbed the corner with his teeth, and tugged out a sleek black and red calling card. “Here, this should jog your memory.” 

Gabriel snatched the card from the offering hand, waving it irritably in the air without sparing it a second glance. “Look, I have no idea what you’re talking about, but I’ve got lawyers on my side too, buddy. Whatever connections your firm has they... they...” The hand fanning the card slowed down. Stopped. Gabriel squinted at it, made a face like he’d just eaten something sour, and opened his mouth in disbelief. “....This says A. J. Crowley.”

“At your service.” Crowley bowed a little, giving a needless flourish with his free hand. “So am I correct in assuming you know who I am? Do you need proof for that too? You can call my agent if you’d like, that’s their number.”

Gabriel was silent. 

“Anyway,” continued Crowley. “The point is... the  _ point _ is -- you should absolutely be worried about what Aziraphale and I wrote together, because we wrote a  _ lot _ . I for him and he for me. Frankly, at this point I can’t even tell you how much. But I figure a skilled reader would be able to pick up on it, especially if they had a reason to go looking. And I think... I think that your publishing firm, or perhaps your family, might like to know that Aziraphale not only knows me Biblically--”

“ _ Crowley! _ ” 

“--What, it’s true! Anyway, he not only has he shagged me, but he also lets me help him write some of those stories you sell. And maybe... just maybe... if word gets out that you guys published  _ whole books  _ which were penned by no other than A.J. Crowley! Well. That would be quite the news indeed. Wouldn’t you say?” he turned to look at Aziraphale.

“Could be bad press,” Aziraphale agreed, glancing over and mirroring his tone with a demonstrative wince. “I couldn’t imagine the fallout...to wind up publishing this decade’s most lecherous author and not even notice?”

“What a breach of trust!” Crowley exclaimed theatrically. 

“What a mess,” tutted Aziraphale. “Completely unprofessional, if you ask me.”

“And to think they’ve been duped?” 

“For six years?  _ Goodness _ me.”

“How many books was it again?”

“Three, weren’t there? All those good, God-fearing people -- tricked into reading things written by that immoral devil? Why, it would be a disaster!”

“One might never recover,” Crowley chuckled. And then, as if on cue, they both turned their heads and locked their eyes on the hapless victim pointedly. 

Gabriel, whose face now matched his light grey suit perfectly, did not appear to be capable of replying. The mountain of confidence he had once occupied had crumbled into a considerable layer of sediment over his anger. 

“I do believe we’ve made our point,” said Aziraphale, reaching an arm around Crowley’s lower back. His hand, as if by habit, slid into the man’s back pocket comfortably. “Now, my dear, since no riots have started yet, I expect we still have time to spare while Gabriel decides how much he wants to risk his entire career. I, on the other hand, have a book to plan. What do you say we go join Harriet and Thaddeus for dinner?”

“Fine by me,” Crowley replied, and they ambled past Gabriel, locked together in their half-embrace.

* * *

_ Click. _

There was a brief pause and then, all at once, light spilled across the dark floor like a river of gold. It overflowed from behind the bathroom door, traversed the lacquered wood, crept across the rugs and crawled up the side of the bed in a single, clean line. Once there it meandered in a more naturalistic way, weaving to and fro between the rumpled covers, scaling hills and valleys formed therein and, finally, slipping over a pair of perfectly-shaped buttocks. 

Aziraphale’s gaze, lured back to that scene by the new illumination, lingered. He paused where he stood, leaned against the doorframe and smiled languidly. 

“I thought you wanted to take a shower.”

“Mmph,” responded the man in possession of the perfect buttocks. After a moment of silence, a face surfaced with a gasp from among far too many pillows. Crowley rolled his head back, sweeping the hair out of his eyes, and cast a barely-lucid half-glare in the direction of the back-lit man. “Y’think I can walk after that?” he slurred. “I can’t tell if I have no knees or far too many of them. Are my legs still there? Might not be. Care to check?”

“Is that your ploy to get me to carry you?”

“I feel I’m owed that, seeing as you’re the one responsible for this.”

“Bold claim, coming from someone who, not half an hour ago, insisted I go ‘harder’ and swore at me when I hesitated to comply out of concern.” Nevertheless, Aziraphale pushed away from the wall and wandered back to the bedside. 

Up close, he could see more details he’d missed in between the hurried passion of their most recent entanglement. The soft red hair decorating the man’s legs, the curve of his spine, fluid and impossible even in its resting state. The mess of tousled half-coils brushing the wide shoulders. The long-fingered hands, wrists twisted loosely around a pillow by his head.

There were things here that he knew of, even if he couldn’t see them - the imperceptible scars decorating Crowley’s shoulder blades from an accident he’d had in his youth, the traces of a healed-over navel piercing, the shine of his impossibly beautiful eyes when the light hit them just right. Secrets, details that he’d hoarded for years, always wondering when would be the last time he would need them to keep the memory alive. He’d built up his image of Crowley like an obsessed collector, reconstructing the whole in his mind from scavenged scraps, always fearing that it would be the only way to get to keep at least some part of the man after all this was over.

Now it wouldn’t be over. He got to have this.

As long as he didn’t muck it up, of course.

As if sensing his faltering heartbeat, Crowley rolled over. “What?” he asked. “You’re making a face.”

“I just.” Aziraphale sank down onto the edge of the mattress, dropped his gaze and surrendered to the fluttering feeling of vulnerability. “I haven’t finished apologizing yet, have I?”

For a second, it seemed that a reply was being withheld. Then Crowley sat up, coiling a loose arm around his knees and setting his chin on them. “For?”

“For... Oh, you know. Everything.” Aziraphale forced a small laugh, though it was a struggle. “Would you like a list?” 

“Not really a fan of lists.” Crowley leaned in this time. “Just pick one.”

Aziraphale swallowed. Was it his pride he was swallowing -- that lump in his throat? Or his fear of rejection? “Lying to you about... about coming here. Making you think you had to go, that you had no choice--”

“To be fair, I  _ had  _ to go,” replied Crowley almost immediately. “You really think I was gonna let you go on a vacation to America without me?” He tongued at his teeth lazily. “I already told you you should have just asked, but, well, that’s in the past. Honestly, I think we’re more or less even on that front. I lied to you too, about the first time we met in The Garden. So.”

“Hardly the same, my dear,” murmured Aziraphale, but when he looked up again, it was slightly easier to gaze into those intense golden eyes. “You deserved the truth. Transparency. You trusted me, and I manipulated you.”

“Like I said, we’re both guilty if you’re going to make that case. We both suck at this.” Crowley scooted closer, and finger by finger, his hand eased itself over Aziraphale’s. “Especially since we had so many chances and didn’t take them. Even after the fact. Even a week earlier. Probably should have done that. Maybe before we crawled into bed with each other.” 

“Yes, quite. Even after you agreed to go with me, I wasn’t clear regarding the limits of this... our... this trip,” Aziraphale admitted with a nervous laugh. “We didn’t exactly plan, did we? Didn’t have a backstory prepared at all, didn’t discuss it--”

“We really didn't,” Crowley agreed, voice low. “Some great authors we are. Bloody stupid, I think. But it’s worked out alright somehow hasn’t it? Aside from uh. My little foray Into The Wild.”

Aziraphale snorted despite himself and then smiled sheepishly down at their hands. “How very clever.”

“Isn’t it?” Crowley’s voice was betraying a slightly anxious shiver. “Just trying to be Thoreau.”

Another bolt of laughter warmed Aziraphale up from the inside, much as he tried to shove it down for propriety’s sake. It did at least help with his own nerves, helped to replace them with well-worn, familiar exasperation. “Good Lord, Crowley, really, I’m trying to be serious here--”

“I know. Me too. 

“It’s just... It’s hard. After six years of not talking about it.”

“And three days of fucking about it?” 

Aziraphale chuckled again and then stopped abruptly when Crowley reached up and cupped his face. He lifted his head and suddenly they were face to face, staring into each other’s eyes, and the terror flooded back in, filling the old divots of uncertainty.

Why was he frozen with the same indecision as he often faced staring down many a first draft? 

This wasn’t an empty page with a blinking line. This was Crowley. They had known each other for ages. They had talked enough to fill books. They literally  _ had _ filled books. With their words. Together. 

Not about this, though. They’d never talked about this.

But it had to start somewhere, didn’t it? Every novel began with a blank page. No outline, no summary. The mistakes, the typos could be edited later. Just start writing, let it out, don’t stop. 

“I love you.”

As soon as the words left Aziraphale’s lips there was a momentary pause as they both looked at one another, equally startled. Crowley opened his mouth as if to reply, but all that came out was the quietest, most awed little ‘oh’ Aziraphale had ever heard him utter.

“I have, for a long time,” Aziraphale continued, without even thinking about what he was saying. It was just coming out of him as if the stopper had broken, as if he was a magician pulling endless scarves from a hat. “At least six years, but probably longer. You have always been important to me, my dear. I have never once been able to successfully imagine a happy life in which I am without you. Each time I see you, I grow more fond. Each time, I find more of you to love. I thought I was not allowed to exist the way I wanted, I thought I had to live on whatever I could get. But you fed me, in more ways than one. Kept me alive. Kept me from going under. I never knew what ‘better half’ meant until I met you. Without you, I am merely a fraction of the man I want to be. And somehow, there is more of me when we are together.”

For a second it almost looked like Crowley was going to smile, to crack a joke, to diffuse the situation, but instead he bit his lower lip and dipped his head. Sniffled. Tried to pretend his shoulders weren’t shaking.

“My dear, are you crying?” asked Aziraphale, reaching out to gather the many gangly limbs into his arms. 

“No,” Crowley said, shoving his nose as hard as he could into Aziraphale’s neck and wiping his entire face against it. “I’m jus’... allergic... to romance”

“What a predicament,” Aziraphale said, petting him on the back soothingly. “Good thing you still have me to take over when it gets difficult.”

“If you can’t beat em, join em...”

“Will you, then?”

Crowley sniveled loudly. “Will I what?”

“Join me? In this life? ...until death do us part?”

Crowley peeled his face away, just far enough to tip their foreheads together. “Aziraphale,” he said through at least an inch of water clogging his nose. “You can’t just say things like that. You’re going to give me a heart attack. I can’t handle this, all at once, I-- _ Yes _ , for fuck’s sake,  _ of course _ . I never left, you idiot. Never plan to. ‘Till death do us part’ -- like hell! Like hell it will. I’m never letting  _ anything _ take you away from me.”

“Good.”

“...and you’re sure?”

Aziraphale blinked. His hands -- which had been rubbing gentle circles into Crowley’s tensed shoulders -- stilled. “Sure about what?”

“All this. Risking your career. Your reputation.”

“My career is what we built, together. My reputation is negotiable. It’s like you said -- there are people who won’t accept me. And those who will. Like Harriet. I can’t say it’ll be easy. But I’ll take it as it comes. I’ve already given forty years of my life to the church. I’d like to keep the next forty years for myself. I believe that’s a fair bargain.”

“And if Gabriel comes knocking again?”

“We’ll burn that bridge when we get to it,” replied Aziraphale, and the corners of his eyes crinkled as he smiled.

“Now that’s something you definitely stole from me.” 

“It was a philosophy worth learning.”

Crowley pulled back, and wiped the last few incriminating traces of moisture from the corners of his eyes. “Learning things from me, are you now?”

“I think...” Aziraphale stopped himself short, drew in a deep breath, and looked up thoughtfully. 

Outside, the snow was falling slowly. Tomorrow was New Year’s Eve -- and he had yet to pick a resolution. 

“Yes, I think it’s time I did. Five collaborative books, twelve articles and five hundred thousand words of fanfiction later, I’m beginning to have this uncanny idea that I should start listening to you.”

“Is that so?” asked Crowley with an amused quirk of his eyebrow. He leaned in, joined their lips again, and when he pulled away his voice did not waver:

“Glad to see we’re finally on the same page.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's the end! Or is it? 
> 
> I will post the epilogue in a few days. :) We still have one more thing to take care of.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one is about new perspectives. It's short, but it's important.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One last time, I just want to thank you all for being here. It's been a wonderful ride and I'm glad to finally see it through to the end.

* * *

“First up?”

“Florida.”

“Sounds dreadful.”

“Once we land, they’ll have a bus ready. It’s apparently something like a house! Should be delightful. They said it’ll have a bed and desks, so we’ll be able to sleep while we’re on the road. We’ll drive to Georgia, and then snake back and forth across the rest of them, until Texas.”

“Terrifying.”

“It gets better. We’ll stop by the Grand Canyon --”

“Tolerable.”

“-- It’s gorgeous, hush. Another flight -- from Arizona to Hawaii -- and then when we get back, we’ll cross California, south to north. Up to Seattle... hold that part of the map up. Yes, and then a quick flight to Alaska, up here... back across the midwest until we make the east coast again. Then New York -- that’ll be the last one, the grand finale. And then our actual proper vacation, a gift to ourselves for having survived. If you behave, I’ll take you to see Broadway.”

“Aw, you shouldn’t have.”

“I knew it would be easier if I could keep you focused on reward.”

From beneath a pair of new sunglasses, Crowley beamed him a smile. “It’s adorable that you think it’ll work.”

Aziraphale tsked and folded the oversized map in half with some effort before glancing at his watch. “Speaking of working, my work begins when we land. Do you know what that means, my dear?” He tucked the map under his arm and turned around to face Crowley. “It means I would like some blessed peace and quiet on the flight over. None of that previous funny business, do you hear?”

“Oooh, is that an order?” growled Crowley playfully, leaning in until Aziraphale reached out and grabbed his red silk tie. A similar shade of red colored Crowley’s face, though he appeared no less enthused about their negotiation. 

“No, no orders yet,” said Aziraphale. “But I do recommend you go and get that nervous energy out of your long legs before we board, or I’ll find a different way to keep you in your seat.” He smiled knowingly and then, innocent as anything, reached up with his other hand, adjusting the man’s tie just a bit, as if that had been his plan all along. “Do I make myself clear?” 

“Opaque.”

With an amused hum, Aziraphale tugged the other towards him gently, then swerved and placed a chaste kiss on his nose. “In which case, for the next half an hour, you are a free man. Go terrorize some salesmen; have fun, don’t set anything on fire.”

“No promises,” promised Crowley, rocking back on his heels as he was released. 

Aziraphale watched him depart, slightly mesmerized by the hypnotic sway of his hips, and finally turned away once the Temptation Incarnate had safely rounded the corner without tripping any passers-by. 

He only noticed that he’d dropped his map after the fact, and was in the middle of picking it up again when a voice accosted him from above.

“Mr. Fell?”

Aziraphale straightened, looking around the half-empty terminal, and finally settled his gaze on an unfamiliar man approaching from the other side of the walkway. 

Except, no -- he  _ was _ familiar. Tall, muscular, wearing a too-tight t-shirt and sporting a dark curly beard. Aziraphale had only really seen the top half of his face the first time they’d met, but it was enough to jog his memory. It was the passenger from their trip from London! The one whose seat Crowley had spent most of the flight leaning his legs against. The one he’d briefly spoken to about -- what had it been about? Something about religion and the legalization of marriage.

“Sorry to startle you,” said the man, growing visibly less sure of himself as Aziraphale stared. “I know you probably don’t recognize me.”

“We met on the way to New York,” said Aziraphale, and, after a few seconds of thought, realized that there was something else odd about the situation. “You know my name?”

The man smiled -- his expression open, sheepish, denying nothing. “I’m sorry. I -- Actually, I had recognized you on the plane, but I couldn’t bring myself to say anything.”

An old, familiar feeling of dread was forming in the pit of Aziraphale’s stomach but he immediately squashed it down. He was done with hiding. And besides -- what was the point? If the man had known who he was that entire time, without batting an eye at their shenanigans, then... well... perhaps things weren’t as perilous as he’d thought. There was a learning curve to this, being honest and open about who he was, and this seemed as good a time as any to start his meandering ascent.

He looked up at the tall fellow, who was still regarding him guiltily, and smiled. It wasn’t forced at all. He felt... at ease. 

“Goodness, you don’t need to worry,” he said cheerfully -- as if he, himself, had not been worried only moments prior. “It’s not as if I’m some celebrity. Though, thank you for not outing me right there and then. I’m sure the headlines would have had a great time with ‘Christian Self-Help Author A.Z. Fell Helps His Clearly Un-Christian Partner Pull Off A Heist To Embarrass Local Religious Woman.’”

They both laughed. The man looked younger suddenly, his face flushed in something like relief. “Actually,” he admitted. “That’s not why I recognized you.”

Aziraphale kept smiling, though his eyebrows drifted up in mild confusion. “Sorry?” he asked. 

“I mean, I know your books of course.” For some reason, he seemed even more embarrassed now. “And I’ve read them. Not all, I mean, a few. But that’s not why I know your name. I’ve actually known you since before you started writing. I used to go to your church a long time ago.”

Aziraphale’s smile lost some of its certainty. “Ah, I see. I’m sorry, I know it would be proper of me to pretend to remember your name, but--”

“No, no,” said the man immediately. “Actually, to tell the truth we never even talked. I just knew  _ of _ you, in a sense. Which will probably make this even weirder to hear, I’m sure, but you kind of... in a weird way, you... saved my life. Helped me through some things I was struggling with. I was in a rather abusive situation. I was a gay kid, and I decided to come out when I was in high school. My parents didn’t accept me, didn’t accept my sexuality. They tried to get me to change, tried just about everything. Therapy, football... church. My mum -- she was really against it. So she decided to visit a catholic priest to discuss the best way to handle me.”

Standing there, staring up at the youth, Aziraphale felt the fireworks of a startled shiver pass through him. The man was speaking fast, as if he were afraid the words would run away with him if he didn’t set them free quickly enough.

“But you see uh -- That priest didn’t tell my mom to fix me. Didn’t tell her to pray the gay away. He told her...” The man laughed quietly and ducked his head. “He told her that he, himself, was gay. And she was angry -- beyond furious. She thought that the priest was influencing me somehow. He wasn’t, of course. We didn’t know each other at all. But hearing her say that -- knowing there were others out there, kind people, good people who could even be priests -- it woke me up.”

Aziraphale blinked vehemently. His eyes were beginning to sting.

“And I didn’t really handle it well. There was no good way to handle it. But it made me realize that I could have a different life. I... I ended up running away from home, and cutting contact with my family. I hopped on the back of a truck and went up north with nothing to my name. Ended up staying with a friend of mine in Scotland. Life was tough for a while; to be honest, I was on the streets for a bit, but now it’s -- It’s really good. And I owe it all to that priest. So.”

The man looked up. His smile was soft and genuine. He reached out to Aziraphale.

“My name is Noel,” he said. “And I wanted to thank you.”

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [**@thechekhov**](https://thechekhov.tumblr.com/) on tumblr!


End file.
